


Rascals, Scoundrels, Villains, and Knaves

by Frea_O



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 18th Century, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Bechdel Test Pass, Curses, F/M, Gen, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Norse Myths & Legends, Pirates, Superheroes, Supernatural Elements, Swords & Fencing, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frea_O/pseuds/Frea_O
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tortuga, 1745. It’s been three years since they last sailed together, but when an old enemy resurfaces and takes one of their own, it’s up to the crew of the Avenging Angel to assemble and take to the high seas once more.</p><p>Or: the one where everybody is a pirate except the two canonical characters with eyepatches. Drink up me ’earties, yo-ho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Violet Herald

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icecream_junkie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=icecream_junkie).



It was impossible to destroy a place so covered in scum and debauchery as Tortuga, but, Natasha Romanova thought as she stood on the cliff overlooking the city, somebody had certainly done his best to try.

Next to her, Doctor Bruce Banner made a noise in the back of his throat. “That explains the smoke,” he said, rather needlessly. They’d been tracking it through the jungle since dawn.

Tortuga lay nestled in the harbor below them, thick smoke rising in columns from its jailhouse, its major public houses, and several other buildings. Some of the jungle surrounding the city had burned; she could see scorch marks on the cliffs and new pockmarks from cannon-fire. She scanned the skies, searching for an upside down flag. The smoke made it difficult to see, but the flag did not seem to be flying yet. It didn’t soothe her at all: Fury or any of his lieutenants could have simply been unable to reach the pole and fly the warning.

“They’ll have need of a surgeon,” she said.

“Yes.” Bruce was sure-footed as they climbed from the cliff. It had been a strenuous journey from his hideout, but the doctor, soaked in sweat and swatting at flies, hadn’t complained. Two years in the jungle had left their mark. Though he’d pointed out time and again that he was only coming along to confer with one of Fury’s doctors in Tortuga about a sickness facing some of the children, he had dropped his protests at the sight of smoke that morning. Natasha knew he had already arrived at that conclusion. This was no longer a favor for Fury. “Any thought as to who might have done this?”

“Fury has enemies a-plenty,” Natasha said, which she figured Bruce would know was not an answer. The surgeon did not deal well with manipulation, and Natasha did not deal well with the truth. They were safest if they kept to that middle ground.

As they jogged, she categorized what she had seen. She’d noticed the pattern of damage on the buildings she could make out in the distance, but she hadn’t brought a spyglass with her and she had nothing in the way of Clint’s eyesight, so she couldn’t be sure that the attack had originated in the harbor. If the attack _had_ come from the harbor, she was willing to bet her gold that it had been a heavy ship with long-range cannons. The pattern of destruction simply fit.

“It’s a pity,” Bruce said, panting a bit, “that they waited until you were not in town to attack. I imagine it might not have gone so well for them if you had been on hand.”

Since Bruce had been one of the few that had survived the night she’d earned her nickname, Natasha inclined her head at the compliment. “The same could be said of you, Doctor.”

“There would be more damage for everyone if I had. _He_ does not choose sides.”

The good doctor had a point.

Perhaps Tortuga of 1745 was not as prosperous as the Tortuga of yore, in the golden age when any ship who fancied a life of buccaneering could sail the sea free from persecution. Times had grown tough with the Royal Navy tightening its stranglehold on the Caribbean waters, and Tortuga definitely showed the wear. When Natasha had left, though, it had at least been a bustling city where pirates and citizens moved about as they liked. Now, it felt eerily empty, not a blessed soul in sight. Shop windows were shattered, the precious glass glittering in the stone-paved streets. Buildings, saved from ruin only by the previous night’s rain, still smoked, bringing the scent of char to the air. Natasha looked about, expecting to see town-folk beginning to rebuild already. She saw no one.

The back door to the Violet Herald—it had been the Violent Herald once, but Clint had had an “accident” with a sling-shot that resulted in the “N” going missing—stood open, and there was smoke, but Natasha could smell meat cooking. She entered and neatly side-stepped the cleaver Volstagg the Cook threw. “Only me,” she said, holding her hands up.

The ex-viking lowered a second cleaver. “Beg pardon, Mistress Natasha.”

“Your aim is improving,” she said, and the viking snickered. “Doctor Banner is with me. Perhaps you could skip the greeting?”

“It would be much appreciated.” Bruce edged inside and smiled at the cook, hesitantly. This man was a far cry from the arrogant surgeon Natasha had met on the decks of the _HMS Ferrous_ , but Bruce had cause for hesitance these days. “Greetings, Volstagg. Are you well?”

“As can be, Doctor. Mistress Natasha, you’ll want to go inside, they’re a-meetin’.”

Natasha didn’t bother to ask who was there, she’d find out soon enough. “Make sure the doctor gets something to eat.”

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, but Natasha was already heading into the main room of the pub.

Fury’s establishment was one of the many public houses offered in Tortuga, but it lacked the atmosphere that most irates wanted. Prostitutes flocked toward Calico Lensherr’s pub or No Legs Charlie’s Academy o’ Rum for that sort of entertainment, which suited Governor Nicholas Fury just fine. The ex-privateer was too busy seeing to Tortuga’s rather dubious government to run a successful pub, which meant that more often than not, the main room served as a meeting place for his most trusted cadre of lieutenants.

Natasha was not surprised to find Maria Hill inside, arms folded across her chest and a stormy look on her face. There was a still-healing wound on the woman’s temple, and her dress looked rumpled and torn from battle, but her eyes were bright and angry as she greeted Natasha with a nod.

Fury stood not far from Hill, hands on his hips. As ever, he wore all black, his boots polished to a high mirror shine. There was not a single smudge on his black overcoat, which he wore despite Tortuga’s sweltering climate. “’Bout time you showed your face, Romanova,” he said, glaring at her with his good eye.

Natasha had made good time, and she knew it. “Mayhap don’t send me away before the next big attack,” she said, and took her normal seat. The one next to it was empty, but she didn’t worry. Not yet, at least. “I found Banner.”

“He come back with you this time?”

“Aye, I did,” Bruce said, finally coming into the pub. He had his hands clasped together, another sign of nerves. “Though I’m not sure it was the wisest thing to do. Do you have wounded?”

“No,” Fury said, looking distinctly disgusted.

Bruce looked about in confusion, as it was obvious from the overturned tables that the battle had extended _into_ Fury’s pub. “No?”

“He took ’em,” Maria said, her scowl deepening.

“I beg your pardon? He?”

“That would be the Count of Jotunheim, an old friend of yours, I believe.”

Natasha and Bruce exchanged a look, and Bruce removed his spectacles. “That’s impossible, Governor,” he said. “The last we saw Loki, he…”

“Had a little trouble picking up a cutlass, much less using one,” Natasha said.

“He seems to have gotten past that little inhibition, given that he showed up in our harbor last night and opened fire.” Fury sat down at the table, and like magic, Volstagg appeared from the kitchen with a pint of rum, “He opened fire and his men came ashore. They fought like…”

“They fought like they were cursed,” said a new voice, and Phillip Coulson stepped inside, wiping his hands clean on a handkerchief. He was, as always, dressed impeccably in a frock coat of the latest fashion. And he was also alone, Natasha saw with narrowed eyes. “They could not be killed. You cut a man down, a fatal blow, and he climbed to his feet even while he bled.”

“Cursed?” Bruce asked, looking alarmed.

“None shared your curse, Doctor,” Fury said.

“Otherwise this whole town would not be still standing,” Maria said, and as unnecessary as the comment was, Natasha felt the other woman had a point.

“How is it possible?” Natasha asked, leaning forward on her elbows, her arms crossed on the table. It wasn’t ladylike, which was precisely why she did it. “Last I saw Loki, he was a shade.”

“And he still is. Barton’s arrow flew clean through him.”

“Where is Clint?” Bruce asked, and Natasha nearly spared him a grateful look for saving her from having to be the one to ask.

She forgot all about that, though, for Coulson’s face immediately took on a set expression, the one he used when he was forced to tell somebody something unpleasant. Her heart began to pound, but she struggled to find her balance—something that had never caused her difficulty on deck or on dry land. She managed to keep her voice even as she asked, “Killed?”

Coulson shook his head. “Taken.”

“Taken?”

“Turned into one of the cursed, more like.” Maria accepted her own glass from Volstagg, and the bottom of Natasha’s stomach dropped out. She did not look at Bruce, could sense Bruce deliberately not looking at her. They knew what it was to live with a curse. “Loki attacked with a crew of forty men, some familiar to us. You remember Parker the Spider and The Lady Watson.”

Natasha knew them, but not very well. Clint had been fond of the young privateer and his mistress. The two men had bonded over their time climbing about as topmen in the Navy. “What of them?”

“They were turned into nothing but mindless beasts. Tell me, how does a man who can’t even pick up a cutlass without concentrating turn some of the smartest people I know into empty vessels?” Fury asked.

“Draugr, sir.”

As one, all five of the people in the room turned to look at Volstagg, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen with his arms loaded down with plates. He gave a mighty shrug. “They’re Draugr. Well, of a sort, sir, they are,” he said. “The dead ones are full Draugr. The live ones, not so much, but given enough time, they will be—full Draugr, that is.”

“And what,” Fury said, his voice crisp, “the devil is a Draugr?”

“I thought everybody knew what Draugr was,” Volstagg said, forehead gaining large furrows.

“You’ll have to forgive me if my knowledge of magic is a little limited, considering I didn’t believe it existed until I saw Banner here grow more than thrice his size and turn greener than a cabin boy in a hurricane!”

Coulson had pulled a small booklet from his pocket. “I know this one,” he said, flicking through the pages. “The Norse believe that the dead can walk again, sir.”

“Aye, and they’re vicious, too,” Volstagg said. “Big, hulking, nasty creatures that haunt the graves of good, honest folk. I’ve seen my countrymen avoid many a grave, sir.”

Fury gave the ex-viking a long look before he turned to Coulson. “You mean to tell me that Loki has turned my people into Norse ghosts?”

“Not ghosts. As far as we can tell, they’re not dead,” Coulson said. “And they’re quite solid.”

Natasha sucked in a slow breath and looked down at the table for a minute. Beside her, she felt Bruce do the same, which helped somewhat.

“They’re merely…not themselves,” Coulson said. “We recovered one of Loki’s original slaves that came back to his senses during the fight. He told us everything he knew.”

So the curse could be overcome, Natasha thought, and stored that information away.

“And when were you planning on sharing this with the rest of us?” Fury asked.

“Doing it now, sir.” Coulson, flicking through the pages, began to list details, and Natasha finally got the full story she had been trying to piece together. Tortuga had been attacked under the cover of darkness. Forty some-odd Draugr had scaled the harbor walls and had opened fire upon the guards patrolling there, taking them by such force that the city of Tortuga had been unable to rally. Following them had been the shade of Loki Laufeyson carrying a short staff that glowed blue on the end.

Bruce and Natasha exchanged a look.

“Loki moved through the men,” Maria said, speaking up for the first time in awhile. “That staff—he used it on the men. Everyone he touched turned and immediately fought his comrades as though he didn’t recognize them at all. Barton tried to stop it. He tried to put one of those salt arrows he’s been crafting through Loki’s eye socket.”

“And did it work?” Natasha asked.

“Went right through the bastard.”

There went that theory of Clint’s, Natasha thought, but she remained silent.

Coulson’s notes moved onto the interrogation of the ex-Draugr, who had been a fisherman in Kingston. Loki had recruited about thirty of them from a pub for what was supposed to be honest work, but outside the pub, he’d touched them with that staff and suddenly, the man had cared nothing about a wage, or his family. The man had been aware of losing sleep, and letting his body dwindle to nothingness from a lack of food and attention, but he simply hadn’t cared.

“He didn’t know if the orb on the staff had a name,” Coulson said, closing the notebook with a snap. He put it into an inner pocket of his frock coat, which had been specially tailored for him on a trip to the Colonies.

Bruce finally cleared his throat. “It does.”

“Pray, enlighten us,” Fury said.

“It’s called the Lyskilden, and it’s impossible that Loki could have found it because the last time we saw it, it was sinking to the depths of Davy Jones’ locker in the arms of Captain Obadiah Stane,” Natasha said.

“And it might just be the thing that cursed me.” Bruce paused. “And some others.”

As Natasha was one of those cursed, she appreciated being included.

Governor Nicholas Fury stared at the two of them for a long moment of silence. “I do believe,” he said in a tone that was so dry, it had no business being anywhere near the Caribbean, “the pair of you and Mr. Barton left out a few details about what really happened that night on the _Ferrous_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To preface this entire story, I am not in any way history-oriented (I fell asleep during history classes), so there are probably a lot of anachronisms in this story. I tried to research as best I could and chose to keep dialogue closer to the twenty-first century for reading purposes. That is not to say Clint’s going to greet Natasha with "’Sup?" or anything. I would beg you to take this story in the lighthearted spirit it’s meant to be rather than a proper historical documentation of the times. Also, the title comes from a little known verse of the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ theme song, but it is not a crossover so much as it’s kind of a fusion (aka I borrowed the atmosphere of those movies because I adore them and this was written for the awesome [icecream_junkie](http://icecream_junkie.livejournal.com), who loves those movies as well, so I wanted to give her something in the same vein.
> 
> Some deliberate anachronisms, though, just to give you a head’s up: by the mid-18th century, though there was an influx of piracy in the Caribbean that was short-lived earlier in the century, Tortuga was pretty much defunct, but I’m choosing to ignore that. The Navy, by this point, basically had the pirates on the run. Also, the _HMS Ferrous_ is based entirely off of the _HMS Victory_ , which was originally built about twenty years after the _Ferrous_ would have been, but Tony Stark’s always going to be more advanced than everybody else, so that’s okay with me. I’m certain Clint would be “Clinton,” Tony would be “Anthony,” and Steve would be “Stephen” (I know his name is Steven, but I don’t think the v spelling came until later; I could be wrong), buuuuut it was just weird to write it that way, so they’re Clint, Steve, and Tony.


	2. Memory Most Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some vocabulary for you to make this chapter a little easier: _gunwale_ —upper edge of the side of a ship; _scuttlebutt_ —cask of drinking water aboard a ship; rumor, idle gossip; _topmen_ —a watch team set “aloft” (read: in the rigging), considered some of the most experienced men on the ship; _yard_ —tapering spar attached to ship’s mast to spread the head of a square sail.

The nights where the moon waxed in the sky were his favorites.

Others that sat in the crow’s nest, watching for squalls and pirates and privateers alike, might like the full moon best, the way moonlight silvered the crests of the swells below and provided as clear a view as noontime to the trained eye. Clint, however, preferred the night where there was just a little darkness, just a hint of mystery and chance in the waters.

The other topmen wasted absolutely no breath in informing him that he was daft, but Clint didn’t mind. It was a well-known fact, even among such a new and untested crew.

The _Ferrous_ was so new that her gunwales gleamed even in the light of the half-moon. She was the pride of the Royal Navy, a ship so advanced and so brutal in power that no other ship on the planet could hope to match hers for strength and speed. As well it should be, Clint thought as he turned, scanning the waters by habit. The Navy had paid Sir Anthony Stark a pretty penny for her. And since the shipwright seemed to view the ship as his own personal vessel, he’d no doubt added as many modifications to it as he could.

Tony Stark was said to be a man ahead of his time. From the glimpses Clint had caught of the man—and the woman that accompanied him (who was not his wife, nor did she seem to be his mistress)—he could certainly believe it.

There was nothing in the water, no ships in view. Clint was tempted to lash himself to the nest and doze, but if he was caught at that again, it would be a whipping and he knew what would happen if a whipping was to be administered. The passengers had nosed up, curious, when the lieutenant had whipped Ryerson, their eyes wide and startled as they viewed the ship’s justice. And Clint very much did not want to be whipped in front of ladies. It was bad enough facing his fellow seamen, but there were three very fine ladies on board the _Ferrous_ for this maiden voyage. Sure, he hadn’t a shot with any of them, but it was a matter of pride. Also, he thought with a wry twist of his lips, in the end he’d rather keep his skin whole and unmarked.

When the watch captain signaled for the men to trim the topsail, he ignored the man beside him, the man who should not be there, and moved over the rigging, more comfortable in the lines than he was on the ground. He kept his tunic bulky and loose to hide the short bow he carried with him always, the string coiled in an oiled pouch that hung from his neck. He suspected that at least the watch captain knew about it, but Clint Barton wasn’t the sort to cause trouble, so the man let it pass.

Besides, what use was a bow without a quiver and the arrows? They had no way of knowing about the quiver he’d smuggled into a compartment built into the crow’s nest. He sharpened the arrows regularly on these long night watches, which they also had no way of knowing.

Movement on the deck below made him glance down. Well, no, it wasn’t the movement, he admitted. Even in the dead of night, a ship in His Majesty’s service bustled with activity. It was the color that drew his eye. Red wasn’t a color regularly worn by sailors in His Majesty’s Navy. The purser usually handed out bolts of blue and tan cloth, and occasionally a bright green. There were red bandannas, brought from home and ports afar where dyed clothing was more commonplace, but even on the _Ferrous_ , they were few and far between.

Besides, none of them could be that impossibly beautiful shade of red.

“She was fetching, no?” said a voice to his left.

Clint didn’t look at the man as he tracked the progress of the woman in the red dress across the deck. Of the civilians, this woman had been the first to get her sea legs. “Still is,” he said.

“This was the first time you see her fully, yes?”

“No, she had been a presence on deck before. I suspected she walked the deck at night more than I thought.” Clint continued to track Natasha’s progress across the deck, appreciating the sure-footed grace. Scuttlebutt said she’d come onto the ship as Lady Virginia Potts’s lady’s maid. Any excitement that the men might have felt at that had dwindled upon realizing that the woman was sweet on Sir Stark’s valet, who might have seemed genial, but the man had a _look_ in his eye that any sailor recognized. Given that scuttlebutt also said the man was a close, personal friend of Lieutenant Rogers, everybody understood: Miss Petrovna was just as off-limits as the rest of the civilians.

A man had eyes, though. He could look.

“She’s beautiful,” he finally said, answering the man’s question. “And you knew her better than I did at this point. You were downstairs in the wardroom with your brother, dining in the captain’s quarters every night. She told me all about those dinners.”

Loki, Count of Jotunheim, smiled. There were no friendly overtures in that smile. It was the grin of a madman, of a man who no longer had a firm grip on sanity or conscience. Clint wasn’t sure Loki had had much of either to begin with, but now that he was a shade and not a man, the grin had become something more sinister and frightening.

In Clint’s memories, though, Loki could not hurt him, so Clint turned back once more to watch the woman on the deck below. Because his memory dictated it, he saw to a loose sheet before the watch captain could spot it and scold him, and returned to his lookout duties. When the end of shift was called, he stretched out a sore shoulder and clambered to the rigging to head back to the deck. False dawn was hours off; he’d get about four hours of sleep if he hurried before the men on the first shift became too loud and woke him.

Loki drifted along after him, taking in Clint’s environment with a sharp eye. “Life on a ship is ever so dull,” he said. “How can you cope that this is your existence?”

“It puts food in the belly,” Clint said. On the way below-decks, he spotted another loose sheet and broke out of the line to head below to square it off. The watch captain gave him an approving nod as he passed. “Dignity’s well and good and all until you’re starving. A man with an empty belly might just discover he has different morals ’n a man what’s been fed regular. Besides, ’tis honest work, which is more than I can say for some.”

“You’re quite judgmental for a sailor.”

Clint tied off the sheet. By that time, the rest of the topmen on his shift had shuffled below, off to their hammocks. He followed, swinging down easily to avoid the stairs. He could make the walk back to the mens’ quarters with his eyes closed, should he need to. Now, walking through his memory with Loki trailing in his wake, he didn’t dare close his eyes. He was about to reach his favorite part of the memory.

Indeed, in the memory, he heard the telltale creak of a floorboard, followed by a muffled curse in Russian. His eyes searched the torch-lit dark of the hold, unerringly finding the only splash of color in the ship. He could make out the pinpricks of torchlight gleaming in eyes that he knew now were green and only sparingly amused.

He reached under his shirt for his bow. “Who’s there?” he asked, though he’d known the answer, even then.

Another curse followed, this time more resigned than muffled, and Natasha Romanova stepped from the shadows. Behind him, Clint heard Loki let out a delighted hiss like a man at the theater who liked the turn the play had taken. The redhead couldn’t see him; this was Clint’s memory, after all, not hers. “I apologize,” she said. She still had traces of her native accent in her words, Clint thought. He’d forgotten how melodic it could be. “I do seem to have gotten lost.”

In his memory, Clint raised an eyebrow. There was absolutely no way she could have wandered into the main hold from where the civilians were quartered. The marines would have seen to that. “Apparently,” he said, releasing his bow and crossing his arms over his chest. “Aught I can help you with?”

“No, no, not at all. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She looked almost ethereal. He wasn’t sure if it was his memory enhancing things or not, but if he had to lay a wager on it, he’d bet against it. Natasha had always found a way to shine. As Pepper’s lady’s maid, she’d cut a swath on the ship in the highest fashion. After, aboard the _Angel_ and in service of Fury, she’d taken to simpler garb as befit working life on a ship, but she had always been beautiful, no matter what she wore.

“Wasn’t startled,” he said.

For a split second, amusement showed on Natasha’s face, betraying the high-born veneer she had been playing at the time. “Then why did you jump so high, sailor?”

“Barton,” Clint said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you call me sailor,” Clint said, shrugging, “you might get four or five men come running, Miss. There’s a lot of us. My name is Barton. Clint Barton, at your service.” It had felt silly and odd, but he’d made the short bow he’d seen many of the officers make to the ladies of their acquaintance.

Judging from the look Natasha gave him, he looked just as silly as he felt. “I see,” she said. She extended a hand to him, and Clint eyed it. What was he supposed to do with that? He’d already made his bow. “Miss Natalia Petrovna, also at your service.”

“You’re supposed to take her hand, paper skull,” Loki said. Clint didn’t look at him, but he could hear a smirk in the shade’s voice. “Oh, this is too precious.”

Hesitantly, he took the hand. At the time, the thought had occurred to him that she had a remarkable number of calluses on her hand. Since he wasn’t quite sure what to do, he made another short bow and dropped the hand as though she had burned him. “You might want not to be down here, Miss Petrovna,” he said. “Some of the men, they…”

“Haven’t seen a woman in weeks?” Natasha gave him a deceptively sweet smile. “I hold my own, Barton.”

“You really are quite smitten, aren’t you?” Loki’s voice was delighted as it rang in Clint’s ears.

“Is there a problem?” 

All three of them—well, the two humans and the shade—looked over. Lieutenant Steve Rogers, who was known about the ship as the most level-headed and kindly of the officers, even if he was also strict as the day was long, was standing on the stairs to below-decks, squinting at them in the darkness. Clint immediately straightened and took a step back away from Natasha. Though he technically hadn’t done anything wrong, such interaction could end with a whipping or half-rations.

“None at all, Lieutenant.” Natasha gave Steve a smooth smile. “I got a little lost. Mr. Barton was offering his assistance.”

Steve—Lieutenant Rogers, as he’d been then—looked suspiciously at Clint for a moment, but being an officer, doubting a woman’s word was against the rules. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps I could escort you back to the civilian quarters?”

“I assure you, there’s no need. I can see to it myself. Farewell, gentlemen.” With one final quietly entertained look, Natasha slipped past Steve and up the stairs. Clint watched her go—and unfortunately didn’t look away in time, judging from the way Steve eyed him suspiciously.

“Hardly seems like the woman that’s going to slaughter forty men in a few days’ time,” Loki said, leaning back against a post and crossing his arms over his chest. “And here he is, our stalwart captain. Hell’s bells, I’d forgotten how bracket-faced he was before the Lyskilden cursed him.”

Clint felt a curl of disgust at the words, but it was fleeting. Trapped in the confines of the memory, he stood at attention, waiting for Steve to scold him. “I would expect you to be abed at this hour, Seaman Barton,” Steve said, frowning at him. 

“Was on my way, sir. Came across Miss Petrovna by accident.”

Steve paused for a long time, and Clint knew he was evaluating the story, trying to figure out if the seaman was telling the truth. Evidently, he must have decided that Clint was, for he relented, his stance going from the forbidding lieutenant to that of just another sea salt below-decks. “Did you? I know what some of the men have been saying about her and Miss Carter.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I take no part in it.”

“Good.” Steve glanced toward the hold where most of the crew was abed in their swaying hammocks. “Not that any of ’em had a fig of luck anyway. Miss Petrovna’s quite taken with Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky, Clint knew him to be. Natasha had told him all about the man in their long hours together aboard the _Angel_. Bucky, Steve’s closest friend in childhood.

Loki, no doubt sensing Clint’s thoughts, let out a cackle. “Jealous of a dead man, Barton? I like this. I like this, very much.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said to Steve.

“Best to keep your distance, lad,” Steve said, though Clint was several years his senior. “Get some sleep.”

The lieutenant headed back toward the deck without another word. Clint, grateful that he hadn’t even had his rations taken away, turned and moved toward the crew quarters. He made it three steps before something behind his stomach jerked, hauling him up and out of his own mind and back into reality.

He opened his eyes to find himself on the deck of the _Trickster_ , surrounded by workers racing about and trimming sails. The buffet of the wind against the mast rang in his ears like a familiar tune. For a split-second, there was a ball of fury, ill-contained and uncontrollable, that grew in his chest, making him want to lash out, to fight, to run and pillage and burn. But he blinked and the same blank loss of feeling slid over his mind. The thing that made him Clint was still in there somewhere, but it was quiet and subdued. All he wanted to do was whatever the man kneeling over him said.

The Count of Jotunheim, seeing that Clint had awoken to broad daylight, tossed his scepter from hand to hand, raising the tip from Clint’s forehead. It glowed blue: a shard of the Lyskilden, craftily forged into the tip, Clint knew. Clint’s entire existence had finally begun to make sense when Loki, who was somehow corporeal whenever he held the scepter, placed the Lyskilden shard against Clint’s chest and informed the ex-seaman that he had heart.

Now Clint existed only to do Loki’s bidding, whatever it might be.

“That was quite enlightening,” Loki said as Clint calmly rose to his feet. “I had suspected some attachment on your part, but—why, I do believe, Mr. Barton, that you’re a fool in love.”

“I am only here to carry out your orders,” Clint said, though that rage flickered up in the back of his mind for a split-second. It was quashed just as quickly. “My feelings matter little.”

“Good. We’ll examine the actions of Miss Romanova in more detail later. We can relive the night Stane caught us all by surprise, perhaps.” Loki smiled. His years as a shade, a man caught between two realities so that he was never fully present in either, had not done him any favors. There were dark circles under his eyes, his mostly-translucent skin sallow and sagging. “In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself useful about the ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, and headed for the rigging.

For a trace of a second, he missed the feel of his old bow under his tunic. But that moment, like everything else, was fleeting. He had a new master to serve now.


	3. With the Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More vocabulary: _blunderbuss_ —a muzzle-loading predecessor to the shotgun with a flared barrel.

Natasha and Bruce exchanged a long look at Fury’s words; Bruce tilted his head slightly, the meaning very clear: Fury is _your_ master, not mine. When the crew of the _Angel_ had disbanded, she and Clint had drifted naturally to Tortuga, though none of the rest of the _Angel_ ’s crew trusted Nicholas Fury. Word of their deeds that night on the _Ferrous_ had spread far and wide that there could be nowhere as safe for them as under the flag of an enforcer like Fury.

That, however, did not mean she precisely liked jumping at his every beck and call.

She was rescued from having to answer, however, by Coulson clearing his throat. “I would hold off, sir,” he said. Every muscle in Natasha’s body tensed; she recognized his body language as signaling approaching trouble. Indeed, he was peering out the window. “Talk of the devil,” Coulson said.

Natasha looked toward the window and agreed. She needed only a single look at the mast of the approaching ship to rise to her feet. It had been three years since she had laid eyes on it, but she knew that ship like she knew her bones.

Beside her, Bruce’s fist tightened around the fork. “Stark or Rogers?” he asked Natasha in an undertone.

Natasha wished she had Clint’s eyes. After a second of squinting, though, she could make out the red and gold flag flying from the ship’s topmast. “Stark,” she said. Steve’s flag was red, white, and blue. Stark preferred the blazing yellow and red. “Could he have heard?”

“This soon?”

“Hm,” Natasha said, and without waiting to be dismissed, strode out of the Violet Herald. It would take the _Angel_ a good while to arrive at the dock, so she didn’t bother to take the faster route through Tortuga. Walking through a deserted landscape when there should have been bustling crowds about made her shoulder blades prickle.

Bruce followed, once more not saying a word. Two days in each other’s company had brought on the same comfortable silence from serving aboard the ship together. From the way he was looking about the abandoned shop and home windows, though, she could tell he was just as unnerved by everything as she was. 

She hoped he kept calm.

By the time they reached the dock, the _Angel_ was close enough that the stevedores left had gathered about, ready to grab the lines. From this distance, she could see the bright red coat of the man standing at the rudder—which complemented the pale gold dress of the woman standing beside him. Had they planned it?

Natasha wouldn’t put it beyond Sir Anthony Stark.

He swept off his cap—a trifle awkwardly, as he was using his left hand—as the ship nudged up to the dock. “Ho, there, my fellow Avengers!”

“Tony,” Banner said, sounding both amused and exasperated in a way that only Tony Stark could produce. “There’s trouble, so of course you would show your face. Lady Potts.” He made a short bow to the red-headed woman Stark helped up the gangplank.

She curtsied back. “Please, Bruce, you know it’s Pepper. And Natasha. You look well.”

“Thank you, Lady Potts.”

No correction of the name there, Natasha thought when Pepper gave her a reserved smile. There wouldn’t be. Even serving alongside each other on the _Angel_ for two years couldn’t quite clear the deception from their history. Natasha almost preferred it that way. It was simply better to be an unquantifiable notion.

Stark looked her up and down, suspiciously. It seemed their time apart had aged him slightly—there was gray flecking at his temples and lines on his face that could be sun or age—but it had also made him more comfortable with his arm and leg. He’d obviously had his jacket tailored to hide the iron arm brace that extended from his right shoulder and supported the useless limb. The iron calf and foot he’d built in captivity were well hidden by a boot that shone like a mirror.

“Romanova,” he said after a minute. “Taken out any armies lately?”

“Stark. Sunk any ships lately?” Natasha said.

Stark turned to look at the burning ruins of Tortuga. “Your work, I assume?”

“You flatter me.”

“It’s Loki’s handiwork,” Banner said, and Pepper and Stark looked at him, sharply. “Natasha and I only just arrived. We’ve been tracking smoke since dawn.”

“That certainly explains your garb,” Stark said, his eyes lingering on Natasha’s trousers. “What do you mean, Loki did this?”

“Ah, Stark.” Coulson had approached silently; though Natasha had spotted him coming, Stark still jumped and gave the man a peevish look. “Should have known that if there was trouble, you wouldn’t be far behind.”

Natasha cleared her throat. “Phillip can inform you of the day’s happening far better than we can, considering that he was present for them. Is your business here urgent?”

“Nothing that won’t keep for a few hours.” Stark waved an absent hand.

That was enough for Natasha. She turned to Coulson. “Phillip—”

“He’s being held at the Academy,” Coulson said, jerking his head. 

Natasha slipped away.

Lady Grey, posted at the door of the Academy O’ Rum with a blunderbuss, let her pass with a nod. She ignored the inordinately hairy man drinking at the bar and slipped straight into the back rooms. They were usually used for pleasure, but today, Red-Eye Summers and Drake the Iceman were standing guard at one of the doors. Summers gave her a frown.

“I’m here at Fury’s behest,” Natasha lied.

“Fury’s already sent somebody to talk to him.”

“And now he’s sent me, too.” 

With a sigh, Summers opened the door and gestured as sarcastically as it was possible to do. Natasha gave him an equally sarcastic curtsy in reply and made her way inside. It was dark, as was always the case with No Legs Charlie’s back rooms, but it was also lush enough for how most people used the room. The dark-skinned man sitting—cowering, more like—in the corner, however, had no business being in a room like that.

Perhaps he’d heard tell of a red-headed woman that wore trousers in the service of Nicholas Fury, for he took one look at her and scrambled backward on the cot until his back was flush against the wall. Prayers and curses tumbled from his lips so rapidly that it took her a moment to understand that he was speaking in French.

Since that language was easier than English, she didn’t mind. “Calm yourself,” she told him, taking in the sodden bandage on his shoulder. “I am here to cause you no harm.”

“They told me you are—you are witch!” Though she’d spoken French, the man’s voice came out in broken English. “You are Fury’s witch!”

“My reputation precedes me, I see,” Natasha said, mostly under her breath. She made a point of sitting down in the room’s only chair, attempting to look as unassuming and harmless as possible. Given her diminutive height, it wasn’t difficult. “I only want information on the man they call Loki. No harm will befall you.”

“Witch!” The man kept praying. “Widow Witch.”

Natasha sighed. Sometimes, her rather remarkable hair color worked against her. Red hair wasn’t too commonly seen around these parts, even with the henna dyes that had been brought into the islands in the cargo holds of enterprising profiteers. Word of what had happened that night on the _Ferrous_ , of what she in particular had done, had spread so far and wide that even this man had heard tell of her.

So she dropped the appearance of seeming harmless, shedding it like a cloak she had tired of. “Yes,” she said in French. “Witch. Scary witch. I shall curse your entire family unless you tell me everything I want to know.”

The man looked at her with terrified eyes. “Please—please—my family, they have done nothing—”

“Then you had best tell me everything you know about the man they call Loki.”

“If—if I tell you, my family—”

“Will live to fish another day,” Natasha said, giving him a scowl that had once made a ship captain wet himself and jump overboard. “Provided I find what stories you have to tell me good enough to ensure their safety.”

Stories began to pour from the man, almost too fast for her to comprehend. He had been a fisherman on an island not far from Jamaica. He had been recruited from a pub to work aboard a cargo ship. At first, it had been voluntary, but the dark haired stranger with an odd accent and a glowing blue scepter had touched his shoulder, and the man had lost all cares about his family, his health, and even his safety. He had cared only about the work. There had been others like him, others that served the strange man called Loki. It had been freeing in its own way, but he had lost more and more time, the man said, until he woke up in Tortuga with no memory of how he had come to be there.

“How many days hence is your last memory?”

“I know not, Widow Witch.”

That was worrying, Natasha thought. By prodding him with questions, she was able to figure out how long it had taken for the memories to become slippery. They really did not have long, Natasha thought, to retrieve Clint. 

“Your shoulder,” she said, once she’d extracted as much information as she was going to get. “Let me see it.”

“Touch me not!”

“You have a daughter, do you not?” Natasha asked.

The man’s eyes widened. He crossed himself and spit on the floor.

“Surely you wouldn’t like any harm to befall her,” Natasha said once that little display had finished. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that it had been nothing but a calculated guess: the man’s desperation spoke of sons that were either too young to provide for the family, or daughters.

“You are evil.”

“Yes,” Natasha said, and she meant it. “I am aware.”

The man glared at her, body angled antagonistically toward her as he reached up with a shaking hand and pulled the bandages away from his shoulder. Natasha didn’t react to the state of the wound that lay beneath. She’d treated far more serious wounds than this on her own person, and had certainly caused much worse with one of her throwing knives alone. So she rose to her feet to get a better look at the wound, giving him an unimpressed look when he flinched away.

The faint tattoo she saw inked on his skin was not one she had ever seen before. The man had been cut with something dull enough to rip the skin rather than slicing sharply. The cut sliced the tattoo in two. The fact that the ink was a bright, unmistakable blue did not pass her notice.

“I shall send somebody in here with fresh bandages,” Natasha said, turning toward the door.

“My daughter?” the man asked.

“I was never any harm to her. You might want to study your witches in greater detail, fisherman. There are fewer of them than you think.” Natasha banged twice on the door to be let out. She left word with Iceman that the man needed medical care. 

The tattoo was an interesting development. Had Coulson noted its importance?

She didn’t get a chance to ask, for she found Stark waiting for her outside. “Nice day,” he said, “if you can ignore the smoke. And the quiet.”

“What do you want, Stark?”

“I used to wonder what this place would be like when quiet, but I just find it spooky. Where’s your partner?”

“Phillip told you what happened to Tortuga. Make your own assumption.”

“I have, which explains the sourpuss look on one la Romanova when I arrived. I assume you’ll be going after your other half the minute you can get your hands on a seaworthy ship?”

Natasha eyed him. “And just how seaworthy is the _Angel_ these days? I see the new masts. Your work, I assume.”

“Some of my finest work, if you must know.” Tony’s mechanical hand whirred as he brushed a mote of dust on the shoulder of his coat. “As it happens, Fury’s already asked us to go track down the villain now known as Loki, Count of Jotunheim, and retrieve his men as safely as we can.”

“And you said?”

“I would be glad to.” Stark’s teeth flashed when he smiled. There was nothing humorous about the look, however. “But I need a favor first. That was actually why the Lady Potts and myself were traveling to Tortuga. Our arrival here today was merely a coincidence.”

Natasha eyed him warily. “And what favor is this that you need, Stark?”

“See those two women?” Stark pointed toward the dock, where some of the dockhands were gathered around two women in fine dresses. The dresses at least looked to be the latest fashions to have arrived from Paris to Natasha’s discerning eye. Both of the women were Anglican but dark-haired. She recognized neither. “The one in the green dress has hired the services of yours truly. She required somebody to find her erstwhile fiance.”

Natasha frowned, tilting her head to the side. “You never struck me as a bounty hunter.”

“I am a man of many talents, Red. Perhaps I should explain further, though. The woman in the green dress is one Miss Jane Foster.”

It clicked into place. “Thor’s missing?” Natasha asked. “Loki—”

“As far as I know, our Norwegian duke isn’t suffering from the same malady as your—what are you and Barton, anyway? Lovers? Imitable partners that glare at everything and pretend to be superior? I can never tell.” Stark glanced at her deadpan expression and shrugged to himself. “We can revisit this subject later. At any rate, I suspect that if Thor had been mentally enslaved by his brother, a wayward Tortugan or two last night would have noticed a giant yellow-haired behemoth among the attackers, armed with a giant hammer. Besides…”

He pulled a scroll from inside the jacket, the gears in his iron brace clicking and whirring together. Natasha kept her revulsion with the technology contained as she took the scroll from him.

She forgot all about it the minute she slipped the ribbon from the scroll and unrolled it. It wasn’t much inside: a simple drawing, done with a deft hand on parchment. There was no mistaking the features of the two men on its surface. They appeared to be asleep in separate glass boxes.

“That is Thor, yes. Nobody’s seen him over a year. And St—Rogers?” she asked. “What is this? Who drew it?”

“An actual bounty hunter, as you’re correct in assuming I’ve not had a change in occupation. He says the island where he saw the men encased in strange, cold, clear coffins is not far from here. He also claimed that he barely escaped with his life.” Stark sobered for a minute. “I think there’s trouble afoot. Are you in?”

“Yes,” Natasha said without needing to think about it.

“Good. We sail with the tide.”


	4. Île de la Glace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of fun vocabulary for this chapter: _boatswain/bosun_ —crew member in charge of equipment and maintenance; _bowsprit_ —spar that extends at bows of a ship (ie the unicorn horn spike on the front of a ship); _looby_ —an awkward, ignorant fellow; _quarterdeck_ —part of ship's deck set aside by captain for ceremonial functions, and where the tiller is located upon the _Angel_ ; _quartermaster_ —the seaman who is functioning as the helmsman; _sailmaster_ —crew member in charge of the ship’s navigation (sometimes called the quartermaster as well).

They gathered, and it was like no time at all had passed. There were provisions to be procured before high tide—Fury was all too willing to help out in that regard, sending Hill and a convoy of those left on Tortuga to the ship with barrels of salted beef and pork, and fresh water, a brace of hens, and bunches of lemons. Even No Legs Charlie sent supplies, as several of his crew had been taken in Loki’s attack. Natasha watched the production as she gathered up her weapons from her various hidey-holes all over Tortuga. She sharpened her cutlass, ensured she had enough ammunition for her flintlock pistols, and oiled Clint’s spare bow. Sailing with the tide that very day was an ambitious goal, but if there was anybody determined enough, Natasha would readily admit that Tony Stark fit that description. Once she had packed everything she would need for the journey, she found him in the sailmaster’s cabin, coat tossed carelessly aside and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The metal brace that extended from his shoulder blade to the tip of his longest finger glinted in the low light. The skin underneath was waxy, the arm atrophied.

“You made good time,” he said without looking up at her. 

“Don’t own much. Is Banner aboard yet?”

“Nay. Still gathering his tools, I imagine.” As the ship’s carpenter and surgeon, Bruce took particular care in his tools and books. Since that care had saved the life of almost everybody who served aboard the _Avenging Angel_ , nobody minded. Stark set aside his quill. “The captain’s cabin stands empty.”

“Steve will be glad to hear that. I’ll be in my bunk.” Natasha continued on to the first mate’s cabin. Before their mutiny had turned the ship from the _Deviant_ to the _Avenging Angel_ , the room had been occupied by an odious Russian named Ivan Vanko. Natasha had wasted no time removing all traces of the man. Now the cabin was like every other living space she occupied: bare, plain, and devoid of anything that might mark it as hers.

Stark had done some carpentry work on the cabin in the three years he had had the _Angel_. It was a little larger than she remembered, but it was still a close fit. There was space only for a bunk and a small table. Natasha hung her canvas bag on a designated hook on the wall, set Clint’s at the foot of the bunk—it was made for somebody taller, so she would have plenty of foot-room—and after a moment of debate placed the water-proofed box she carried in a hold beneath the bunk. It was the first place a marauder would look, but the box was simply too big to squirrel away like she did with the ring she wore on a chain around her neck. That, she slid into a compartment she’d whittled away into the crossbeams that made up the ceiling.

Officially unpacked, she went above. With Clint was not around to examine the lines, somebody needed to fill that absence. She’d just clambered up the bowsprit to check the pulleys when she spotted a figure striding down the dock. “Decided to finally get your sea legs again?” she called.

She could tell he hadn’t spotted her, but Coulson took in the sight of Natasha, legs wrapped around the bowsprit while she dangled upside down, with nary a blink. “Fury seems to think I’d be more help aboard the _Angel_ this time,” he said. “Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted. Though I am only in charge until we get Steve back.”

“I never doubted that,” Coulson said, and headed across the gangplank just as Stark emerged upstairs. “Ho, Stark.”

“Oh, no.” Stark pointed at Coulson. “No, no, no. I am not having one of Fury’s loobies on board, spying and reporting back to that one-eyed tyrant.”

“Your acting captain already invited me, Sir Stark.” Coulson gave him a bland smile. Natasha had to hide her own smile as she righted herself and walked back down to the deck, ignoring the lines that were there to help her balance. “I’ve heard word your ship is in need of a quartermaster. Reporting for duty.”

“We need to talk about taking liberties with taking on new crew,” Stark told Natasha as she hopped back onto deck.

She shrugged. “We’ve no quartermaster, master gunner, top rigger, or captain, for that matter. We need all the help we can get.”

Stark gave them a look that said he was in no way pleased by this development and headed back to his maps. “Quartermaster bunks with the rest of the crew,” Natasha said to Coulson. “My apologies for that.”

“I am, of course, happy to go wherever assigned, Captain Romanova.”

“Do you need to be shown around?”

“I’ll find my way,” Coulson said. Natasha nodded and began climbing the foremast to check the lines.

Within the hour, Bruce had brought all of his tools aboard and Natasha had introduced herself to both Miss Jane Foster and to the crew that was temporarily hers. Without Steve, the job of captaining the ship fell to her, which was puzzling. Steve had picked her for his first mate before they’d even solidified their plans to mutiny against Justin Hammer, then captain of the _Deviant_. There had always been the undercurrent of “If the curse takes me or if I die, the ship will be yours” in his choice, which puzzled Natasha. Nobody on the _Angel_ had any business trusting her, and yet they never questioned her. Well, everybody but Stark, that was. Stark questioned everything. It was just his nature. It made her perverse, likely, but she found comfort in that.

They caught the tide, the _Angel_ once more underway on a new adventure, missing its captain, its master gunner and most importantly to Natasha, its top rigger. Thankfully, life on a ship changed little, no matter who one served, so they were able to make up their losses among the crew, at least for the first couple of days. They’d sailed under a pirate’s flag for the better part of two years, and Clint had made the claim time and again that the only thing that had changed between piracy and the Navy were the outfits those in charge wore. Also that there were women in the command structure, Natasha had always pointed out. No Navy on the planet would have Lady Pepper Potts as a bosun on any ship—and every Navy was the poorer for it, in Natasha’s opinion.

Two days into their journey found them in the midst of a surprise storm, one that had arose without warning and left the way it came. Every inch gained came at the frustration of the crew, who fought throughout the night. Stark’s modifications to the ship, however, held fast, so dawn saw the ship in one piece, riding the swells and only a little off course.

Still, it was days more before they heard the call from the crow’s nest of “Land ahoy!”

“Bearings?” Natasha called back to Volstagg, who had taken his shift in the crow’s nest upon finishing the day’s dinner. He called out a bearing that was surprisingly accurate for a man who had been sent along by Fury to run the galley.

Natasha pulled the spy-glass from the pouch she kept strung to her belt. As her hands were full with the rigging she was attempting to lash back, she tossed the glass to Pepper, who was nearest.

“I think that might be our island,” Pepper said after a moment. “Our cook’s eyes are better than we knew.”

“Fetch Stark,” Natasha told the nearest deckhand, who scrambled away. There had been rumbles of discontent among the hands hired out of Port Royal, where Stark and Pepper had set sail originally. They hadn’t been too keen to serve underneath a woman. Natasha had dealt with that by meting out punishments the minute they dared cross her. Now they jumped to do her bidding almost before she ordered it.

“Do you think the bounty hunter was telling the truth?” Pepper asked, handing the spy-glass back.

“We’ll soon find out.”

Bruce climbed onto the quarterdeck. “We made good time in spite of everything,” he said, shading his eyes as he peered into the distance. His tunic was threadbare and ripped from years alone in the jungle; Pepper had already begun to sew him a new one, Natasha knew. “How is she doing, Natasha?”

“She’s seaworthy, Banner,” Natasha said. When Pepper looked slightly put out by that, Natasha sighed inwardly. She inclined her head and remembered her manners. Pepper had personally seen to most of the new masts; they fell under her jurisdiction, as she was the ship’s bosun. “The new foremast is probably why we’ve made as good a time as we have, though. It’s quite the addition.” 

Stark joined them. After peering through the glass, he closed it with a careless snap that made Natasha glare at him. That glass had cost Clint a pretty coin. “Good, my calculations are as perfect as ever. That inlet matches the drawings I was given. So.” He turned to them with a bright look. “Who’s our raiding party? We’ll need nobody faint of heart, I suspect there is something quite amiss on that island.”

They left Coulson in charge, over Stark’s protests (though the sailmaster was somewhat mollified by Natasha naming Pepper first mate in her absence). Bruce came along in the event that either Steve or Thor required medical attention. She did not expect Jane Foster, who’d thrown herself into whatever duties Natasha had assigned, to insist upon coming, but Stark didn’t have a problem. Volstagg completed their party.

Once they had pulled the longboat onto the beach, Natasha let Stark lead the way. His iron leg put him at a disadvantage in this climate, but he said nothing as they marched on. “Does this island have a name?” Jane, who looked uncomfortable in the trousers she’d borrowed from Natasha, asked.

“If it does, it’s certainly not listed on any of my charts,” Stark said. Natasha wasn’t surprised; the Caribbean was dotted with thousands of tiny, nameless islands that didn’t amount to much. Some trees, some rocks, and if a stranded sailor was lucky, as they had been five years before, a freshwater stream. The larger islands could be crossed on foot in the course of a day or so. This island was much smaller than that: if Natasha had to guess, she would say that it would only take two hours at most to cross.

“I suppose,” Bruce said, “that means we could name it, Miss Foster.”

“Island of the Giant Yellow-Haired Man and the…Other Giant Yellow-Haired Man?” Stark asked. “That lacks poetry.”

“Perhaps it would sound better in French,” Natasha suggested.

Stark glanced back in surprise. “Did our acting captain just _jest_ , Doctor Banner?” he asked.

“Keep a weather eye out for fresh water,” Natasha said, deciding not to address the taunt. “We’ve not used much on the ship, but every little bit helps.”

“That sounds more like Romanova,” Stark said, and Natasha didn’t bother to roll her eyes.

They cut through the jungle to the north, hacking away at vines that grew too thick to pass. That made Natasha nervous, as it was clear that nothing inhabited this island regularly. They saw no signs of other life. Could Stark’s bounty hunter be lying about what he had found?

And if Steve and Thor weren’t here, how much time had they wasted when they could be tracking Loki?

“Well, that is not a good sign,” Stark said, and Natasha unsheathed the cutlass over her left shoulder, moving into position to guard Jane. She craned to get a look, following Stark’s sight line. When she saw what he had indicated, she no longer doubted that they had the wrong island. She felt blood drain from her face. 

“How…” Volstagg’s voice trailed off.

Dangling from the trees, too far off of the ground to be hanged, were three corpses. From their state of decay, Natasha guessed that they had been dead a month. Chunks of dried muscle clung to what bones were left, which told her there had, at one point, been birds on this island. The fact that the air was completely silent, however, sent goosebumps racing across Natasha’s arms and back.

Jane paled, but Natasha had to credit the woman for not becoming violently ill. Because Thor had waxed poetic for hours about his betrothed while serving on board the _Avenging Angel_ , Natasha knew that Jane had led a sheltered life on an estate in the Bahamas, nothing that would prepare her for such a vision as the one that presented itself to them now. “How did they come to be like…that?”

“I know not, milady,” Volstagg said.

As one, Stark and Bruce turned to look at Natasha. She sighed and sheathed her cutlass. It took a moment for her to find handholds on the trunk of the tree, but she scurried up. She drew up level to the bodies and looked about, searching for any sign of how they had come to be strung up from the tree. There was nothing. “I don’t see anything. I’m going to climb onto the branch,” she called to the others.

“Do be careful!” Jane said.

Natasha did not hear Stark’s reply to that, but she imagined it wasn’t flattering, so she let it pass. Cautiously, she pulled herself up onto the branch, making sure she had gained her balance before she walked across the branch to the bodies. The ropes holding the bodies were evenly spaced, with nearly a meter between each. She recognized the knots as nautical, as well, which told her this wasn’t necessarily related to anything supernatural. It was also too precise to have been done in rage.

“Anything?” Stark asked.

“It was human, whatever that did this to these men,” Natasha said, scooting over to the next body.

“Human? As opposed to _what_?” Jane asked, sounding alarmed.

Clearly, Natasha thought, Thor really had left some details out of his history when meeting his betrothed. She tugged on the rope to test its heft and a bone broke loose from the body’s shoulder, plummeting to the ground and barely missing Bruce. “My apologies,” Natasha called when the doctor glared up at her. “These corpses are clearly more rotted than I had suspected.”

“Cut one down,” Stark said. “It will make it easier to see if the good doctor can determine how these unfortunate souls died.”

“This feels like an appropriate time to mention how little I have missed you, Stark,” Natasha said. Wrapping her legs around the branch to secure herself, she bent and began to saw at the rope with her knife. When the final fiber snapped, she grunted and took on the weight.

“Can you handle it?” Stark asked.

“It’s about three stone. I’ve handled worse, Stark.”

“We don’t need to hear what you and Barton get up to when we’re not around, Red.”

Natasha bit her thumb at him. From the ground, she heard Stark’s raucous laughter. It took her a minute to fashion a harness to carry the body down that would leave her hands free, but eventually, she began the climb down. She wondered if any of them had noticed the lack of avian life around them. It was unsettling just how quiet it was.

“So, just how many things do you have in common with your average jungle monkey?” Stark asked.

Natasha glared down at him. “I could drop this on you,” she said. “I assure you, nobody would be heartbroken.”

“Ahem,” Bruce said, clearing his throat. Stark, not in the least rebuked, grinned. Natasha was almost comforted by the fact that even though the crew of the _Angel_ had gone their separate ways three years before, some things remained unchanged between them.

With that in mind, she touched down upon the jungle floor. She reached up to remove the corpse from her back.

Unfortunately, she was interrupted by a figure bursting through the foliage, cutlass out and flashing toward Tony Stark’s throat.


	5. In the Cavern

Banner grabbed Stark and threw him to the side, leaping after him so that the attacker’s cutlass struck nothing but dead air. Before Natasha could leap at the attacker, there was another blur of something from her right. She yanked the skeleton from her back, pivoting in place, and swinging it as hard as she could. It crashed with the clatter of bones breaking into the second attacker, who had been aiming to strike at Jane. The woman—for it was a woman, tall and dark and wearing battered green armor—toppled to the ground.

“Sif?” Volstagg asked, gaping at the attacker.

A third enemy appeared out of nowhere. Sif climbed to her feet, shaking off bones and dust from the corpse. She had a cutlass in one hand, a knife in the other, and a look in her eye that made Natasha’s hackles rise.

Volstagg crossed swords with the third attacker, a man who looked like he hailed from the East. “These are Thor’s loyal servants,” he said. “They are not our enemies.”

“Then it is my fear, good man, that somebody here is very, very confused,” Stark said, climbing to his feet.

The first attacker, a blond man with the same look in his eye, went for Bruce. Stark leapt forward, blocking the strike with his iron arm. Natasha pushed Jane back out of the way of Sif’s blow, which came smashing down from above so hard that it nearly broke Natasha’s wrist as she moved to block with her cutlass. Their blades locked together. It took everything Natasha had to dodge the slice to the ribs that followed. She jumped into the air to avoid a swipe to the knees, kicking both feet into Sif’s chest. Momentum sent the other woman tumbling even as Natasha launched into a back-flip. She landed easily, but Volstagg was suddenly between them.

“No,” he said. “They’re—you can’t hurt them—”

“They’re trying to kill us,” Natasha said.

But the cook gave her such a ferocious look that she sighed. “Fine,” Natasha said as Volstagg dove forward, his giant mass enough to knock the third attacker back. “I will wound only.”

Without Volstagg between them, Sif charged. She had, Natasha realized, at least twice the strength of a full grown man. Every clash of their blades sang up her arms. In addition to being strong and immovable, Sif was fast; she parried every blow, dodged every thrust. Natasha’s superiority with the sharpened edge of any blade gave her very little advantage against such an opponent.

Her boot slipped on a wet leaf. With a hiss of air between her teeth, she went down to one knee, barely getting her sword up in time. Sif ignored the sword, grabbed a handful of Natasha’s tunic, and tossed her. The redhead flew, stomach in her throat. She twisted in midair, crashing hard into the ground and immediately flipping to her feet, sword up. She’d been thrown entirely free of the path, into a sandy clearing just beyond. To her left, there was the dark mouth of a cave opening.

Sif smashed through the underbrush. Natasha parried, darted in for a strike, danced back. Behind Sif, she saw a split-second glimpse of Jane through the trees, the woman pale-faced and terrified. “Run!” Natasha said, slicing at Sif’s ribcage. When Sif turned to see who she had addressed, Natasha threw all dignity to the side and delivered a solid kick to the other woman’s posterior. Sif wheeled, glaring. Natasha stuck her tongue out.

The juvenile tactic worked. Sif forgot all about Jane and chased Natasha, who sprinted for the cave. She hoped the cave wasn’t merely a shallow hole in a rock formation that had sprung up, almost unnaturally, in the middle of the clearing. It wasn’t: the entry to the cave led into a tunnel. Natasha dodged and wove, trusting her natural grace on the uneven terrain. Her boots splashed through puddles, her swords leaving sparks whenever she scraped the rock walls closing in on the side of her. Natasha ran on, hoping these tunnels weren’t going to lead to a dead end and possibly her own death.

The tunnel opened into a larger cavern dotted with stalagmites and crannies in the rock walls. In an open space, Sif held the clear advantage. But here, this could only be Natasha’s realm. She raced for the first stalagmite and ran up the foundation until she could back-flip over Sif. She landed and hit the woman, still mid-turn, with the flat of her blade. For an instant, Sif looked confused, like she wasn’t sure where she was.

And then her blade came down so hard that Natasha let out a cry and dropped her own. Pure luck had her tripping backwards and out of the way of Sif’s next blow. She yanked her second cutlass free. Yet more luck allowed her to knock the knife from Sif’s hand, evening the odds somewhat, but Natasha still fought on. She didn’t let the fear infect her, even though her right hand was throbbing. She kept it at bay, even though Sif came at her relentlessly, hacking and slashing at Natasha any way she could. 

Natasha’s second mistake was that she miscalculated the distance of her next jump. Her skull bounced off of a stalagmite hard enough that sparks skittered across her vision. She landed on all fours with just enough mental awareness to roll away from the first blow. The second blow, however, she saw coming for her face—until it was blocked mid-swing. 

Jane Foster, looking small and terrified, faced the giant of a woman in front of her, holding Natasha’s dropped cutlass. “Back away,” she said, her voice wavering. “I cannot let you—”

Sif swung in an arc that would clearly have taken Jane’s head off—if a giant roar hadn’t reverberated through the cave. It was enough to alter Sif’s swing just enough to miss Jane’s head by a hair.

Natasha’s bowels turned to water. She recognized that roar. Even as Sif stepped toward the cave entrance, puzzled, Natasha sprang to her feet and yanked Jane away. “Run,” she said. She hauled on Jane so that the other woman had no choice but to come with her. “Faster. Run faster.”

“What _is_ that?”

“Banner,” Natasha said.

Jane glanced behind them and let out a cry. They sprinted down another tunnel, hooking a sharp right when the tunnel came to an intersection. Behind them, Natasha could hear precisely what had scared Jane. She recognized the breathing and the roaring, the sound of every object in Banner’s path being smashed to pieces.

Doctor Banner’s other half had come out to play.

As one, Natasha, Jane, and Sif skidded into some sort of chamber. The cave once again abruptly changed, this time from something natural to something obviously man-made. Soft blue light glowed around the base of all of the walls, making Natasha’s hair stand on end. She got a glimpse of runic scribing on all of the walls, but she was more interested in the fact that there seemed to be two pedestals in the center of the cavern, upon which giant blocks of ice, easily large enough to encase a full grown man, rested.

Even more interesting was: “Thor!” 

There could be no mistaking Thor’s handsome visage underneath the surface of the nearest block of ice. The other block held Steve; Natasha recognized the blue coat, lighter than his officer’s uniform but still blue.

She was, however, a little bit too preoccupied with the fact that they were currently facing a madwoman with a sword and the possibility of an angry Doctor Banner showing up to process the fact that two of the men she trusted most in the world were frozen and displayed in giant blocks of ice.

So when Jane raced to Thor’s side, Natasha turned and whipped out a throwing knife, aiming for the wall just behind Sif’s head. It hit with a _BOOM_ that shook the floor, making all three of them duck.

For a fleeting second, a look of confusion crossed Sif’s face. “Erm,” Jane said, and Natasha dove at her attacker, hoping to take advantage. Sif batted her away like she was nothing more than a fly.

Natasha hit the wall, hard, with her back. Again, there was the sound of a minor explosion, only this time, the walls shook as well. Sif shook her head like a dog emerging from the water, looking about in blatant confusion. “What is _that_?” Jane asked.

“I don’t know.” An idea struck; Natasha hit the wall with the flat of her injured hand, watching Sif’s face.

The woman blinked, and there was suddenly life behind her eyes: that of a puzzled, conflicted woman who had no idea how she had come to be holding a sword.

“Stop doing that!” Jane said.

“It’s affecting her.” Natasha ducked under a slice—which hit the wall and made Sif clutch her temple in pain. “I think whatever is in this room, it’s connected to whatever it is that’s possessing her.”

Of course, she thought, a possessed woman was no longer her biggest problem. Bruce’s demon was out in full force. And before long, the demonic form would come looking for them. It had a penchant for chaos, and it enjoyed chasing Natasha. She had enough nightmares about that night aboard the _Red Skull_ as it was.

The only one who had any hope of stopping Bruce in this form, Natasha knew, was also currently encased in a giant block of ice. “You have intelligence and your wits,” she said to Jane as she kicked Sif in the side, sending the woman sprawling. Tirelessly, Sif sprang to her feet and came at her again. Natasha slapped the wall to make her stumble. “See if you can find some way to get the men out of the ice. We’re going to need them.”

“How? This is clearly some sort of sorcery.”

“If whoever had done this wanted them dead—” Natasha parried a blow, ducked, and kicked off the wall to deliver a roundhouse kick to Sif’s midsection. “—they would have just killed them outright. There is some way to remove them from the ice.”

“Oh.” Jane’s eyes widened. She moved away from the wall and darted toward the coffins. Sif checked her swing and turned, unerringly, toward Jane. Whoever had iced Thor and Steve had set up Thor’s loyal servants as guardians to keep others from approaching the temple. That meant that anybody who approached the men in ice would be Sif’s first priority. She wondered if the other two guardians fighting Stark and Volstagg had abandoned their fight the way Sif had just abandoned hers. Natasha dove between Sif and Jane in an attempt to distract the guardian. Sif gave her an annoyed look.

“This is—this is Norse,” Jane said. “I recognize this.”

“You can read Norse?”

“Thor was forever sending me books from his homeland. He wanted to make sure I did not arrive completely ignorant, I think.” Jane’s eyes scoured the walls. “Keep her distracted, I’ll try and free Thor and Captain Rogers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Natasha abandoned all pretense of fighting with Sif and began pounding on the wall with the hilt of her sword. The percussive blast of every hit hurt her ears, but it kept Sif crumpled on the ground, fists clenched against her temples. In the space between hits, she could hear Jane muttering in Norse. Her accent was likely terrible, but Natasha had never learned any of the Nordic languages, so she couldn’t tell. When Sif let out a cry, Natasha took pity on her and clubbed her in the side of the head.

The woman dropped like a stone.

“One problem down,” Natasha said. “Any ideas, Miss Foster?”

“Jane,” Jane said absently, still staring at the wall. “I have…actually, let me…”

She raised her cutlass, which Natasha fully intended to teach her how to use provided they survived this, and slammed it down hard onto the ice directly over Thor. Blue light exploded like a flame from the point where her blade had struck, knocking Jane and Natasha from their feet. Natasha blinked away the afterimage of the light to see Sif’s eyes open once more. She swore; there was all of her hard work undone. When the warrior sentinel headed for Jane, completely in the thrall of whatever had possessed her, Natasha levered herself up onto her hands, flipped up, wrapped her thighs around Sif’s neck, and twisted, viciously. Sif’s back hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from a normal woman.

Sif merely climbed back to her feet.

“Whatever you just did,” Natasha said as she twisted to knock Sif’s feet out from under her, “it seems to have had some sort of effect.”

“We are going to have a talk about _so many things_ if we live through this,” Jane said, and hit the ice again right as a roar, much closer and much more terrifying, rumbled through the entire cavern.

Because Natasha had prepared for this blast , she landed on her feet and tackled Sif again. It was awkward and clumsy, given that the angle wasn’t ideal, but Sif still went down to her knees with a grunt. From behind her, Natasha heard heavy, pounding footsteps. Instinct made her haul on Sif, spinning them both out of the way just in time.

One of Bruce’s fists, bigger than any ham Natasha had ever seen, swept through the space Sif and Natasha had just inhabited. Natasha didn’t bother with a throwing knife. It would only irritate Bruce’s demonic form. She somersaulted forward to avoid being trapped between the wall and Bruce. True to form, the giant man gave a trousers-wetting terrifying grin and swung again, intended to keep batting at her like a cat with a mouse.

Natasha did not particularly like feeling like a mouse.

“Stay out of sight,” she called to Jane. “If he can’t see you—”

Of course, Bruce turned his head and spotted Jane. Natasha swore under her breath, hoped that Clint would understand why she had done what she was about to do when the others told him she was dead, and threw herself on top of the demon’s nearest arm. He roared and shook her off; she flew once more, backward, hitting the wall so hard that black descended over her vision. When it cleared, she saw the fist hurtling straight for her face, and ducked.

Bruce’s punch hit the wall with a gigantic _FWOOSH_ of noise that made Natasha clap her hands over her ears and cry out, crumpling forward. It made the demon back up a step or two in confusion. After a second, he glowered at the wall that had essentially assaulted him and began to pound his fists again and again into the wall. Noise filled the air loud enough to shatter eardrums; Natasha curled into a ball, her hands over her ears. One wall of sound slammed into her after the next, punctuated by Bruce’s roaring at the offending wall and sound. 

Then Sif, of all people, threw a rock.

It hit the demon between the shoulder blades. In the echo of the noise, he froze, and Natasha’s breath caught in her throat. When he turned to look at Sif, disbelieving outrage on his green, overlarge features, the woman smirked.

“Care to hit something that might hit back, monster?” she asked. The dead look in her eyes was completely gone, Natasha saw.

Bruce roared. He clearly did not like being challenged by this puny mortal. When he raced forward, Sif dodged aside.

She could hold her own against the demon for now, and Natasha wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The minute Bruce was truly distracted, Natasha pushed off of the ground and crossed the room in two strides. “Striking the ice seems to do something, as that drew the sentinel’s attention to you,” she said to Jane.

Jane, however, was too busy gaping at the fight between the demon and the woman who had been doing her best to kill them only thirty seconds before. “What is happening? Who is that? Is that a monster from the island?”

“No, that one we brought with us. We should use the distraction while we can get it. Quickly, think, if striking the ice garners a response, surely there’s something we can do.”

“Perhaps…” Jane’s eyebrows drew together as she studied the pallets of ice on either side of her. “Perhaps there’s something in _how_ we strike the ice?”

“I have naught but metal,” Natasha said. She laid a hand on her gun. “And this.”

Jane went pale. “That might be a bit much. What if you shoot the men beneath the ice as well?”

They would survive it, Natasha knew, though it would lead to some discomfort for a few days. “I once saw a man take down a stone wall by hitting it in the right place,” she said, thinking it over. “Perhaps this is a case for precision over brawn.”

“You could be right.” Jane began to run her hands over the ice, frantically. From the way she had her jaw clenched, it looked painfully cold. Natasha’s estimation of Thor’s betrothed went up another notch.

Across the cave, the demon threw Sif. She landed, hopped to her feet, and laughed. Perhaps being completely mad was a Norwegian thing, Natasha thought.

“Wait, wait, do you see this?” Jane bent over the ice, close enough that the tip of her nose was nearly touching it. After a second, Natasha could discern that there was a runic symbol of some sort etched into the ice, directly above Thor’s heart. “It’s the only thing I can find. It must be significant.”

The demon hit Sif. She took longer to recuperate this time, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth as she pushed herself to her feet and gained an unsteady stance in the rubble from the cave wall. Only some pieces of the rocks strewn upon ground glowed with the same faint blue as the rest of the walls. Others were completely dark, like regular rock. When she looked at the wall to her left, which was still whole, Natasha noticed that the glow did not come from the rock itself but from a thousand little symbols carved into it.

Breaking those symbols like the demon had broken the thrall over Sif, she realized.

The tattoo on the fisherman’s shoulder had had a slice through it. He had become free of the thrall, too.

“It is significant,” she said, and pulled out her dagger. With her injured hand, she pulled Jane clear so that she could stab her blade deep into the ice, right in the center of the rune.

This time, the blue light explosion threw both women clear across the room. 

Natasha landed in an ungraceful heap, the breath leaving her lungs. When she moved, pain flared from her left ankle. Somehow, it had gotten wedged into the rocks. She pushed Jane off of her, relieved when the other woman moved onto all fours. At least she was conscious.

Natasha’s luck, unfortunately, chose that moment to run out. She turned to look at the ice pedestal, to see if her experiment had worked, but a shadow fell over her. Instead, she looked up into the huge, grinning visage of Bruce’s demon. He ignored Jane completely, leering down at Natasha. Desperately, she scrambled back, but her ankle was trapped, absolutely stuck, and Sif wasn’t there to provide a distraction.

The beast’s chest shook a little in silent laughter as he reached one gargantuan hand toward her.

Then something metal blurred as it flew through the air, catching the hulking beast on the temple. Bruce stumbled back and turned, betrayed.

Thor, Duke of Asgard, stood on the same table where he’d been entrapped in the ice. He was glistening, dripping wet, one hand held out for the battle hammer that had been cursed alongside him. It flew back into his hand.

“Thor!” Jane said as the beast rushed him.

Natasha gritted her teeth and yanked until her foot came free with some ankle pain and some even more annoying scratches on her boot. It would need to be oiled later. “Go get Sif to safety,” she said to Jane. “Now that we know what to look for, I tcan free Steve while Thor distracts Bruce.”

Clearly Jane had questions, but she hurried toward the other side of the cavern, where it looked like Sif was beginning to stir. 

Natasha, on the other hand, rolled so that she was protected by the stone table that had housed Thor. The duke and the beast fought, smashing through the entire room so quickly that Natasha wondered idly at the possibility of an avalanche of rocks killing them all. She pushed that cheerful thought from her mind, retrieved the knife she’d used to free Thor, and jumped onto the slab of ice holding Steve captive.

It was so cold it burned. She gritted her teeth once more, limbered up as much as she could and, crouched on top of the ice slab, drove her knife into the tiny rune over Steve’s heart.

This time, as she suspected it would, the blast knocked her straight into the air. She soared up, temporarily losing her grasp on her knife. She caught it right before she landed, one boot on either side of a very confused, very wet Steve Roger’s ribcage.

He blinked up at her in surprise. “Natasha?” he asked.

“Ho, Captain,” Natasha said. With a nimbleness that did not betray her injured ankle, she jumped off the table. She then hauled him off after her in time to spare him from being crushed under one of Bruce’s fists. He landed practically on top of her, but immediately rolled off. It was long enough for her to know that the water dripping off of his skin was freezing. “Welcome back from the dead.”

“Was I dead? Mostly I just feel cold.” Steve patted his hips, searching for a weapon. Natasha handed him her first cutlass and picked up the second from where Jane had dropped it. Steve watched Thor and Bruce fight with wide eyes. “What is happening?”

“Seems like you and Thor were under some sort of sorcery.” Natasha winced when Thor was thrown into a wall. The explosive noise made Steve duck, but Natasha shook her head. “Bruce got a little angry. Do you remember anything? By our accounts, it’s been some eighteen months since anybody has heard from you or Thor.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this later?” Steve asked. “Now does not seem like the opportune time.”

Across the cavern, thankfully out of the fighting path of the two men, Jane was helping Sif sit up. “That might be for the best,” Natasha said, and made a break for the door, Steve not far behind. They knew from past experience that Thor could handle Bruce until the man calmed down to return to his human form. Until then, it was safer not to be underfoot.

Since Sif was able to run, they weren’t hampered as they escaped the cave. Natasha followed after Steve as he led the way into the bright sunlight, all four of them blinking against its harshness. They found the others in the clearing just beyond the cave. The other sentinels, like Sif, were no longer possessed. The blond one was wrapping a wound on his arm while the other conferred with Stark and Volstagg.

“Oh,” Stark said, blinking at all of them but particularly at Steve. “You’re alive. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Good to see you, too, Stark,” Steve said.

“Pardon me,” Jane, who was short of breath and now red in the face because of it, “but I would very much appreciate it if somebody explained _something_. Anything at all.”


	6. The Black Widow

The clergyman was drunk.

Clint wondered if any of the officers noticed. Surely they must have. The man was slurring the ends of his words, trailing off in sentences as though he had no idea how he had arrived at the verbal conclusion he had come to. It made Clint distinctly uncomfortable. The clergyman was supposed to be a Man of God.

“God has no place in this business,” Loki said from where he was leaning indolently against the mastpole next to Clint. “He turned a blind eye on this ship long ago, Barton.”

Because they were once more in his memory and none of the others could hear him, Clint turned to look at his captor. There was something boiling under the surface in his chest, something dark and dangerous. Part of him understood what that feeling meant, but that part wasn’t inclined to share with the rest of him. So he looked at the Loki next to him, and then at the Loki across the deck, standing close to the bride and the groom with the rest of the civilians. They wore the same outfit, though the Loki-to-his-left’s was tattered and bloodied from the fight Clint knew was about to erupt. The Loki of Clint’s memory looked on, likely bored out of his skull but showing a politely interested face for the sake of the wedding ceremony going on in front of him.

Clint shrugged at the current Loki. “Seems to me I was never much good at being a religious man. It matters little one way or the other.”

“Do you find it ironic?” Loki’s eyes rested on the pair up by the bowsprit, who were facing each other with their hands clasped. The clergyman stood behind them, facing the crowd.

“Find what ironic?”

“Such a godless woman, married by your so-called Man of God.”

Natalia Petrovna, as she had been then, looked so shining and happy in that moment as she gazed up at her groom. It was a look Clint had seen only twice on her face after that night.

The boiling feeling in his chest intensified so much that for a moment, he felt the rage like a taste in the back of his throat.

“Calm yourself, archer,” Loki said, and the feeling ebbed away.

“Wouldn’t call her godless,” Clint said at length. “She has more reason than most to fear the wrath of an angry God.”

“Do you think so? Hm.” Loki folded his arms over his chest. In these memories, the ones he picked apart like a man sorting through a pile of brass in search for an elusive gold piece, he never carried his scepter. Nor did he shimmer in sunlight or moonlight, like he did in his shade form.

“We’ve all of us debts, Count,” Clint said. “Hers just happen to be heavier.”

He fell quiet. It gave him an opportunity to get a look at all of those gathered on the deck for the wedding of one James “Bucky” Barnes, valet to none other than Sir Anthony Stark, and Natasha Romanova, lady’s maid. The civilians were all wearing what finery they had. Duke Thor, resplendent in a silver topcoat with a red cape fluttering in the breeze from his shoulder, Loki in the same green topcoat he wore now, the gold waistcoat perfectly whole. Dr. Erik Selvig, whom Clint had never seen without an oblong black case under his arm, wore a suit that would not be amiss at the Royal Academy of Science. Lady Pepper Potts wore the finest fashions of 1740, or Clint assumed she did. The hoop in her skirt certainly seemed wide enough. Stark, next to her, still had two working arms and both of his legs. His topcoat, a darker red than Thor’s cape, was pristine, the top hat perched at a jaunty angle on his head despite the wind. Next to him, Dr. Bruce Banner looked shabby in his black topcoat and trousers. Steve in his Naval uniform stood next to the groom. Miss Margaret Carter, Steve’s beloved, stood up for Natasha.

Part of Clint acknowledged that it was bizarre to see them in the same place, so well put together and so _happy_.

Finally, he dared to look at the bride for more than a glimpse from under his eyelashes. She wore a blue dress, more modestly cut than Pepper’s, and perhaps it was the moonlight that peeked through the clouds, but she looked radiant. Clint hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from her at the time. He had a good view of the procession because he’d sneaked up the mast pole and onto one of the crossbeams. Some of the crew were able to attend, but for the most part, they’d all been shuffled off below.

Clint was supposed to be in the crow’s nest. He’d scrambled up there once, for the watch captain had been doing his rounds, but it was much more interesting to watch the wedding take place on the deck than it was to watch the sea.

James Barnes was a lucky man, he’d thought at the time.

He’d been wrong.

The clergyman slurred something Clint couldn’t decipher and turned to Barnes, who turned to Steve to collect the ring that Natasha pretended the others did not know she wore around her neck even now. In the weddings Clint had attended for fellow sailors, the brides usually cried, but Natasha was dry-eyed and smiling as Barnes slid the ring onto her finger.

“It’s all very touching, isn’t it?” Loki asked. “This memory bores me, Barton.”

“It’s about to change,” Clint said. That wasn’t enough for the Norwegian standing next to him, though. Loki snapped his fingers and Clint felt a tug in the core of his body, like he had become a live Punch with no Judy around, and then he was standing on the crow’s nest.

There was a ship in the water next to the _Ferrous_ , its decks black with tar and the Jolly Roger flying freely from its mast. Clint hadn’t seen it coming. To this day, he didn’t know if he would have spotted it had he been at his post, but the way the fog rolled so thick around the Ferrous, it would have surely been improbable.

Not impossible. Impossible was a word that meant nothing to him anymore.

“Ah, yes, here is where it gets interesting,” Loki said.

“Is there a _particular_ reason you wanted to see this memory?” Clint asked. He couldn’t hear what was being said on the deck, not with the wind snatching the words from the lips of Captain Phillips. But he could see tension. The new bridegroom had the new bride’s hand in his. The marines stood between the civilians and those on the other ship, their guns lowered but ready.

Lady Pepper Potts looked alarmed, Clint noticed. Next to her, Miss Margaret Carter had a flintlock pistol—she must have gotten that from Steve, Clint realized now—raised and leveled at the other ship. Natasha was still under her guise as the lady’s maid, so she was clinging to Barnes’s arm, eyes wide and face frightened. It was such an absurd contrast to how Clint was used to seeing her—fierce, unflappable, unruffled—that he nearly did a double-take. Natasha was not one to show fear.

She had once, though, Clint remembered. Her eyes had been gigantic, glittering with the candlelight as she looked at him frankly, the mask that made her the Black Widow completely gone.

“Ho, what’s this?” Loki’s voice cut through his subconscious. In a panicked moment of clarity, Clint tried to push the memory away, but Loki was there in his mind, poking about. With deft fingers, the Norwegian count plucked the memory from Clint and suddenly, instead of standing atop the crow’s nest on the _HMS Ferrous_ , Clint sat in the back of Fury’s pub in Tortuga. He’d traded his sailor threads for the lightweight cotton fabric, again sleeveless, that he wore in the service of Fury. The bow was no longer hidden beneath his shirt but propped up along the wall by his shoulder. The quiver rested against his boot.

There was a bottle of rum on the table. It was for him: Natasha didn’t drink.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Loki said, and Clint looked over to see him seated at their table, looking big and ugly with his elbows nudging against them and his presence all _wrong_. “This is a much, much cozier little interlude. Do continue.”

“Va au diable,” Clint said.

Loki reared back slightly, clearly startled. After a second where Clint’s words hung on the air, echoing strangely as though they were above a canyon and not in a pub, Loki leaned in, a smile twisting at the corners of his lips. “Ah, it seems the archer has found the sharp points to his arrows at long last.”

“Are you not hungry?” Natasha asked Clint. She gave no sign that Loki was there at all. For her, Clint knew, he wasn’t, but Clint could feel him, as intrusive as a blade to the side.

This was not a memory that he could have.

Still, the words came tumbling from his lips. “I do hate eating alone, Red.”

“Don’t you start.”

“You know, if you used that silver tongue of yours, I’ve no doubt Volstagg would prepare a much finer feast than this gruel.” Clint picked up the tin bowl of barley and oats. “It doesn’t always have to be a chore.”

“Fill your face, Barton, so that your mouth will be too full for me to hear your prattle.” Natasha rolled her eyes at him, but Clint knew the look: she was amused rather than annoyed. Always one to oblige, Clint took a giant spoonful and stuffed it in his gob, grinning so that the porridge oozed out of the corners of his mouth. Natasha laughed.

“Just what is it you find so precious about this memory, Barton?” Loki asked, clearly bored.

Anger stirred, making his vision hazy. No, he realized after a second. His vision was fine. The potency of his rage, however, had frozen the memory in his mind, stilling it to nothing more than an unskilled artist’s rendering of the scene. Natasha was trapped mid-laugh, her head thrown slightly back, a light in her eyes that the torchlight caught. Clint took a deep breath and pushed harder on that barrier between his thoughts and his rationalization. The memory began to fade away completely, safe from the reach of Loki’s fingers.

Until, suddenly, Loki was standing before him, crowding his vision and smirking. “You should not play cards, archer,” he said. “Your emotions give you away.”

He snapped his fingers and the memory came back to its full luminescence, so bright that it hurt Clint’s eyes. Everything felt hazy and numb inside, though anger licked at the edges of his psyche.

“You are foolish to think you can resist my will. Now, let us see what you do not want me to know about this love of yours.”

Natasha finished laughing. “You’re not nearly as bird-witted as you pretend to be, Clint.”

“Oh, like as not, I have my charms.” Though he felt hollow, the contours on his face shifted enough to tell him that he was smiling at Natasha. She let out a huff of breath and wiped at the corner of his mouth with her thumb, removing the excess porridge. He pretended to fend her off, though he knew that in a hand-to-hand fight, she likely had the edge. “I might have been saving that for later, you know. Governor Fury keeps sending us on these errands where there is little time to eat, and not everybody has your advantage.”

“Dried porridge is the worst thing I could wish upon a man.” Natasha shook her head at him.

“Spoilsport.” The bang of the door opening and slamming into the wall had both of them looking over. Natasha reached idly for a knife, but it was only Maria Hill leading in a brute. He was clapped in irons, but he was still rather larger than the petite slip of a woman.

“Do you require assistance?” Clint called across the pub.

Hill shook her head. “This lily-livered piss maker will heel like a cur, won’t you, sweets?” She patted her prisoner on the cheek, only grinning a little dementedly when he jerked away and spit at her.

“To having the intestinal fortitude to deal with the piss-makers, Hill,” Clint said, raising the bottle of rum in tribute. When the prisoner and Maria had moved into the brig, he turned back to Natasha with a smile. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything, I don’t think. No place quite like home, is there?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Natasha said, and Clint felt a pressure building in his chest. Loki wasn’t supposed to be there, studying them like ants under a scientist’s glass. “I can’t quite rightly say I’ve ever really had a home.”

“The sea always felt like a home.” 

Natasha watched him, contemplating him in that way she had of measuring every part of him, all at once. “More so than when you lived with the Romani?” she asked.

“Wasn’t with them long enough to consider it much of a home. They let me stay only until my outsider blood became a threat to their daughters.” Clint’s grin was quick and cocksure. “I always knew I wasn’t wanted, the entire time, but I can’t hold that against them. ’Leastways, they were honest. After that, the only constant became the sea. It was my home.”

“How lovely to have that sort of reassurance.” Natasha eyed the bottle of rum and, with a small shrug, took a swig. She did not pull a face at the taste; it wasn’t anything close to Fury’s best, but it did the trick, in Clint’s opinion. Of course, with Natasha’s curse, the finest vintage would taste like the worst swill. “I had a home once.”

At the time, it had been such a startling statement from the Black Widow that Clint had gone still, like prey in the sights of a predator. Natasha Romanova was not the type to share things about herself with others, not even Clint Barton. They had served together on the _Angel_ under the command of Captain Rogers, living in such close quarters that they knew each other’s reactions before the other had fully given them. They had served under the command of Nicholas Fury and anything he required for Tortuga, which often meant days, weeks, and sometimes even months with nobody else for company but themselves. In that time, Natasha had shared only small things—which foods she found less distasteful, her favorite method of killing, that she preferred clouds to sunlight—and nothing about her past. She had never explained why she went by Natasha Romanova now and not Natalia Petrovna.

Clint had made his peace with the fact that he would probably never know.

He’d realized that night in the pub that he was on dangerous, broken ice, walking over water that could turn capricious and drown him at any second. So he casually reached for the rum bottle, feeling a struggle he could not understand deep inside him, feeling Loki’s eyes on them both. He asked, “Aye?”

“I do not remember much of it.”

“Oh, interesting indeed,” Loki said, and Clint nearly told him to go to the devil once more.

“Small pieces, nothing more,” Natasha said, frowning a little. “The walls were blue, which I find strange, as most walls that I remember from my childhood were the same red that stains my blade in battle.”

“But you called it home?”

“Aye. I knew nothing else, so I have to believe that it was home.” Natasha quirked a brow. “I did not realize until much, much later how strange it was to call such a place home, and for how few such a possibility it is.”

Clint was by no means unintelligent, but he wasn’t entirely certain that Natasha’s statement had been in English proper. “Beg pardon, mum?” 

Natasha surprised him by smiling. “Oh, Barton, now is not the time to be so formal.”

“Heavens above,” Loki said, rolling his eyes. “You are a nocky boy, Barton, truly. She means to say that wherever she grew up, it’s not usual for children to live in such a place.”

Clint broke free of the memory. “I know that now,” he said, wanting to roll his eyes right back at the Norwegian count. “If you are so bound and determined to view this memory, perhaps it would be seen more clearly without your constant interruptions.”

For a second, rage, frightening in its depths, glinted in the shade’s eyes. The scepter appeared in his hand, its sinuous lines completely at odds with the rough-hewn look of Fury’s pub all around them. The very tip glowed a bright, unnatural blue.

“Oh, look, you’ve got your stick back,” Clint said, and had time to tense before Loki had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He was thrown clear across the pub, landing indelicately on an empty table. He fell to the ground, rolling out of the way of the blast of blue light he knew surely had to follow. He ducked behind the bar. If this was truly his memory, he would have arrows stashed in the rafters. It was just a matter of getting to them.

He never had a chance. Loki suddenly stood above him, smiling coldly. Clint was stuck in a crouch, staring directly into the tip of the scepter. A shard of something that looked like glass glowed there.

“Impertinent, unlicked cub,” Loki said. “Is your skull so stuffed with paper and fluff that you have forgotten? I own you, body, mind, and soul, Barton. You think your rebellion _cute_? I understand you better than even you know yourself, and I know a tactic with which to stall one’s enemy. It hurts me that you think me so narrow-minded and small.”

Clint opened his mouth. “Fu—” was as far as he got before he was once more seated at the table, Loki’s scepter pressed to his temple and the memory of Natasha staring into his eyes. 

“Here is how it is to be, archer,” Loki said, his voice very close to Clint’s ear. “She is about to tell you some news of vital import, I can feel it in my bones. So you will sit quietly and you will continue to reenact this memory for me, or I shall strike you dead and you will never see your love again.”

“You intend me to kill her,” Clint said, his voice flat.

“Should we meet again, yes. I find there is some poetry in your arrow being the thing to end her when it was that very same arrow that spared her five years ago aboard the _Ferrous_. And I am not such a buffoon as to deny a man his right to poetry.” Loki paused. “Oh, what do you know of poetry, sailor? You likely don’t even know how to read.”

Clint remained silent. Natasha had taught him to read.

“But let’s not be bogged down in civilities. Proceed with the memory, Barton.”

“I would never dream of being informal in your presence, milady,” Clint said to Natasha. At the time, he’d been teasing her, but now he felt a weight in his chest, like the stone he figured would eventually drag him to the bottom of the sea.

Natasha went oddly quiet, though. “Please, do not call me that,” she said. “I am no longer ‘milady.’”

“But you were, once?”

“A lifetime ago.” Natasha took another swig of the rum. She wasn’t anywhere near drunk, Clint knew. The woman had the ability to drink until most of the men in her life were under the table with soft heads and swollen bellies. “A lifetime I would never have had, at any rate, not properly. Had I lived as…that girl, my life would be very different. They took me when I was too young to understand how different.”

Clint stole the rum bottle and took a companionable swig. “I was a respectable sailor once,” he said. “I prefer this life to that.”

He could see amusement in the way Natasha looked about the pub, which smelled of supper and the stale ale. There was a bloodstain on the wall from when Maria Hill had taken exception to one of their visitors the week before and Natasha had decided to solve the problem for her. “Me too,” she said, and Clint took another swig. “Imagine that, a duchess preferring this sort of life to one of ease and ruling.”

Clint spat rum out all over table. “Wh-what?” he asked, coughing, even as Loki’s eyes widened. “Did I hear you a’right? D-duchess? Like Thor?”

“If we are to be exact, Thor is a duke, not a duchess.”

“But you…”

“Oh, I _like_ this,” Loki said, leaning forward a little. His eyes were positively gleaming. “So the lady’s maid who cut down forty men is not only an enigma, but an aristocratic one as well? I can see why you look at her with stars in your eyes, Barton. Oh, this is quite fascinating. Is there more?”

“And I am told my official title is Tsesarevna, though I’ve no memory being granted such an honor.”

Clint tried to parse the Russian.

“Princess,” Natasha said.

“There _is_ more!” Loki looked as though his name day had come early.

“Princess of…Russia?” Clint asked, shaking his head as though he’d somehow filled it with seawater. “You’re the princess of _Russia_?”

“Tsesarevna,” Natasha said. “And if you ever do something so addle-brained as try to bow in my presence or treat me like anything but the Natasha Romanova you have come to know and work with, I will pound you silly, Clint Barton.”

Clint shook his head again. “Why tell me this?” He sounded desperate. Some of it was the memory—the announcement of Natasha’s roots, so freely given, had floored him at the time—but mostly he could feel his actual emotions leaking into his voice.

Natasha went silent for a long moment. It was odd to see her there, so contemplative and torn, while Loki sat next to her at the table, his smile practically screaming in smug satisfaction. When the redhead looked at Clint, her eyes were solemn and thoughtful. “Bucky never knew. And I might never have told him. I was a different woman when I was with him, but this curse, everything that we survived upon the _Angel_ and in our service to Fury, it has taught me that I am only who I am. And Natalia, though she is long buried, is a part of that. I would like you to know of it.”

This time, Clint didn’t ask why. He knew why. 

“Ah,” he said instead.

“Truly, you are an eloquent monkey,” Loki said, rolling his eyes.

It seemed Natasha was in agreement with Loki in part, though instead of annoyance, a smile spread slowly over her face. She looked for the first time since her wedding, truly happy. “That is all you have to say?”

Clint had had to think about it. “Can I call you princess?”

“No, you may not.”

“Are you going to refer to me as peasant?”

“Yes, but I always have, so I fail to see how any of this could be considered new.”

“Does this mean you have a long and royal name?”

Natasha rattled off something Russian.

“And in English?”

“Grand Duchess Natalia Petrovna of Russia.”

“Do you outrank Thor?”

“Natalia Petrovna is believed to have died of the measles at a young age, so no. However, Russia _is_ bigger than Norway. Make of that what you will.” 

“And you are absolutely certain I can’t call you princess?”

“Call me princess and you shall wake up without a liver.”

Clint tilted his head, pretending to give the matter some thought. “It might be worth the risk, princess.”

“Oh, dear _God_ ,” Loki moaned, putting his forehead on the table and making Clint look over. “Are you always _this inane_ , archer? I know enough. I tire of this; I cannot handle your prattle any longer. Please, I shall put us _both_ out of your misery.”

The familiar sensation in Clint’s stomach pulled at him once more. He had time for only a satisfied smirk—Loki had cut the memory short before his favorite moment—before everything was once again numb and emotionless. He opened his eyes once more to find himself on the deck of the _Trickster_ with Loki’s scepter pressed to his forehead. All feelings of satisfaction faded into nothingness, just like the rest of everything that made him Clint Barton faded away. He was only a loyal servant of his master, once more.

But in his head, as he began to ascend to the fighting top on the main mastpole, he heard Natasha’s voice say, “I told you this because you are important to me. I want you to understand that.”

It meant little to him, but it still warmed his chest as he climbed—and then it was forgotten.


	7. A New Sort of Compass

Their return to the _Angel_ was met with raised eyebrows from Coulson and Pepper. “You were successful, I see,” Coulson remarked as he gave Natasha a hand up from the longboat. He obviously noticed her wince, however, for his eyebrows went up even further. “Did you encounter trouble?”

“No. They encountered me,” Bruce said, pulling himself up onto the deck.

“Oh.” Coulson looked at their crew in surprise. “Was anybody hurt?”

“Minor injuries.” When Steve, still a little shaky, pulled himself onto the deck of the _Angel_ and looked about in confusion, Natasha cleared her throat. “Phillip Coulson, allow me to introduce to you Captain Steven Rogers, who, now that he has returned, will be taking over his duties in regards to the ship. Steve, your new quartermaster, Phillip Coulson.”

She didn’t recognize the look on Coulson’s face—it certainly wasn’t one she had ever seen him wear before. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain,” he said, shaking Steve’s hand with just a little too much vigor. “Barton has told me so much about your exploits when you took over the _Angel_ , and can I say, it is just an honor to be serving aboard such a legendary ship.”

She could tell that Steve wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but the captain gave the stoic nod that had probably gotten him far in His Majesty’s Navy and returned the handshake. “Honor’s all mine. Welcome aboard, and thanks for coming along.”

“Perhaps somebody might offer assistance?” Stark asked from the side of the boat.

It took both Coulson and Steve to haul him aboard, as his iron leg and iron arm-guard weighed him down considerably. The minute he was on board, he held out his arm to Pepper. The gash in the sleeve caused by Fandral’s sword was obvious. “Lady Pepper, could you be a dear and roll back my sleeve?”

“Heavens,” Pepper said. “What did you do to yourself?”

“Why does everybody always assume it was me who did these things?” Stark asked.

“Because it usually is, Tony,” Bruce said, clapping him on his good shoulder as he climbed on past. He looked positively gray with exhaustion. “I’m going to…”

“Help him to the surgeon’s cabin,” Natasha said to one of the deckhands and then glanced guiltily at Steve.

The captain only smiled. “Good to know she’s been in good hands while I was frozen,” he said. He signaled to two of the deckhands to haul the longboat aboard and began making his way to the quarterdeck. Sixteen months in the ice, Natasha thought, and none of them had entertained the notion of searching for him until Jane Foster had raised the idea of forming a hunting party to seek out her betrothed. Steve was the one, she thought, the one that would have gathered the crew to search for any of his missing crew members, which meant that nobody would search for Steve.

After introducing Thor and the others to Coulson, she joined Steve on the quarterdeck while he stared up, frowning at the masts above him. “Stark,” she said by way of explanation, and he nodded. “He’s made changes. She’s a mite faster than you remember, Captain.”

“I left her with him when Thor asked me to accompany him on a search for Loki. We had a much faster, smaller ship, one that could be crewed by the five of us. Nothing like the _Angel_.” Steve rubbed a hand down his face. They had come up from the stern, so he hadn’t seen the figurehead yet. Natasha wasn’t sure what he would make of the visage of his dead love’s face upon it. In truth, _she_ wasn’t sure what to make of Tony’s using Peggy Carter’s likeness on the figurehead. “It’s so strange and so familiar, Nat.”

“Yes. Do you know what happened to your other ship while you were on a strange island in the middle of nowhere encased in magical ice?” Natasha asked, diverting the subject since they were nearing the territory of things she never discussed with Steve. After the _Ferrous_ had sunk and they had taken over their rescuing ship, turning it from the Deviant to the Angel, she had served as his first mate, but they had never been close. She had lost Bucky; he had lost Peggy and Bucky. Their loss should have united them. Instead, it had created a gulf between them, and it was easier to simply not speak of it.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Steve said. “Thor and the others might, but…”

Natasha doubted it; Sif, Hogun, and Fandral had seemed rather chagrined about the fact that they’d been doing their level best to kill the crew of the _Angel_ , but none of them had been able to explain why, and nobody had any memory of how they had come to be on the island. 

“Perhaps it will come in time,” Natasha said. 

“Perhaps,” Steve said, but he sounded like he doubted it. “Are we well-supplied?”

“Yes, but we’ve no idea where Loki is, so it matters little.” Natasha adjusted her tricorn hat so that it blocked more of the sun. “The fisherman freed from his thrall did not know his destination or his bearings. I’m afraid we’ll spend a few months asking about in ports if they’ve seen the blackguard’s ship.”

“Have a care of whom you speak,” Thor said as he climbed aboard the quarterdeck. “Loki may be impetuous, but he is still of Norway and he is my brother.”

“He enslaved the minds of over eighty people and killed forty more, that we know of.”

“Well, he was just a fosterling.” Thor flushed red.

“And we’re fairly certain he’s the one that did all of this to you, big fellow.” Stark, the sleeve stripped back from his arm brace so that they could see the dent the blade had caused in the metal, joined them. 

“All of this?” Thor asked.

“Who else do we know that has the juju to turn three fine warriors such as your crew into killers without reason or logic? And why put you in gigantic slabs of ice rather than kill you outright?” Stark patted Thor on the bicep as he walked by. “This was clearly Loki’s work, as was the attack on Tortuga. We were all given…”

“A curse,” Natasha said.

“Enhancements,” Stark said, glancing at her. “I was about to say enhancements. We were given them the night that blade struck the Lyskilden. Until he disappeared, we thought Loki’s were just to make him incorporeal. But clearly, that is not the case.”

“And you think just because he turned an entire crew’s worth of men and women into mindless Norwegian spirits, he also did this to Thor and Steve?” Natasha asked.

“Have you a better theory, Red?” Stark shoved his top hat back to scratch at his scalp. They had encouraged him to find a better hat, one that offered more protection from the sun’s harsh caprices, but Stark clung steadfastly to the one last remnant of the life before Obadiah Stane had made him a prisoner and removed his leg. “In my time in the scientific field of study, and I’m sure Doctor Banner would agree with me if he weren’t below passed out like a drunkard after a hard night suckling from the teat of any tavern in common London-town, I have always found that the simplest solution, for lack of a better explanation, is usually the truest.”

“And when it isn’t?” Steve asked.

“Then we come up with a new solution, but I think it’s safe to operate under the idea that a man we know to be capable of sorcery is indeed behind the imprisonment of two men in ice without any adverse affects. And enslaving the mental faculties of three seemingly very bright Norwegians at the same time.” Stark’s gaze drifted over Sif, Hogun, and Fandral, who were clustered with Volstagg on the deck, no doubt getting acquainted with news of what they had missed in their sixteen months of being brainwashed. 

Steve glanced at Natasha. She gave him a half shrug. “It’s a sound theory,” she said.

“Why do I feel like whenever she speaks well of me, I should get some sort of treat like a performing street animal?” Stark asked the deck at large.

Steve ignored him. “So let us say that Loki was the one that imprisoned Thor and me. Should we scour the island searching for clues of where the count might have gone?”

“It will be a fruitless task,” Thor said. “My brother is cunning. If he has gathered such a large crew, he means it to attack some large town.”

“The town with the best stronghold ’round these parts is Tortuga, and he’s already scavenged it. Could he be gathering an army to attack Port Royal?” Pepper, who’d finally joined them on the quarterdeck, asked.

“We would have had word if Port Royal had been his destination,” Natasha said. She eyed first Steve and then Thor and cursed the holes in their memories that could have possibly provided a satisfactory answer to these questions. “Perhaps it is somewhere out of the Caribbean.”

“But unfortunately that still leaves an entire world of possibility open to him,” Thor said.

“Yes.” Steve ran a hand over his face again. Natasha did not envy him the concept of waking from a sixteen-month sleep to face a problem of this magnitude. “And we have no way of knowing which city he might be looking to attack?”

“Or ship,” Pepper put in.

Steve only looked more tired.

“It’s not like we have a compass that points right at where Loki has gone, though,” Thor said, folding his massive arms over his chest. “Such a thing does not exist.”

Stark, however, frowned.

“It would solve most of our problems, were such a thing to be had,” Pepper said, nodding.

“A compass that did not point north would frighten the more superstitious on the ship,” Steve said. “Would you ladies mind if I…” He gestured helplessly at the lapels of his coat, which was still dripping wet even though it had been nearly an hour since he had been pulled from the ice. “I am afraid the time in the cold has made the garment shrink…”

“No one will be offended here, Steve,” Pepper said, patting him on the arm.

Natasha smirked with humor she didn’t feel. “Need any help?” 

Steve blushed and sidled away a step as he removed his coat. “I’m quite well, thanks.” He set his coat off to the side. When he turned back around, Stark had begun to fumble with his own cravat. “I was not setting an example, Tony.”

“No, no, no. You wished for a compass that might point us to Loki, did you not?”

“I do not see how that has anything to do with disrobing, Stark,” Natasha said.

“I have one.”

“One what?” Thor asked.

“One such compass.” Stark undid the final fastening on his shirt, baring his chest to all of them. The shard of the Lyskilden embedded there glowed faintly even in the daylight. “On the night you came to rescue me aboard the _Red Skull_ , I saw Loki bend as though he meant to scoop something up with his hand.”

“But Loki could touch nothing,” Thor said, squinting at Stark.

“Yes, and because I knew that, I convinced myself it must be a hallucination from the pain.”

Natasha frowned. After they had been stranded on an island and rescued by the Deviant, they had mutinied and mounted a rescue to save Stark. The newly christened _Avenging Angel_ had been swifter than the _Red Skull_ , Obadiah Stane’s ship, and they had approached from the leeward side of the ship, hoping to sneak upon the much larger frigate. They had sent Loki, whose curse allowed him to walk through walls, ahead to warn Stark that they were coming. Chaos had erupted during that battle. It had led to the Red Skull and its blood-splashed Jolly Roger sinking to the bottom of the ocean, nearly taking the demonic form of Bruce with it. Natasha had barely escaped with her life. The danger hadn’t been at the hands of her enemies, but at the hands of Bruce himself. Even she, who had the most experience fighting among the crew, did not have clear memories of that fated night.

“There was a lot happening that night, Stark,” she said. “It could still be a hallucination.”

“Then how is it there are multiple accounts of the man holding a scepter, Romanova, when we know for a fact that for two years aboard the _Angel_ , he could not even wield a dessert fork?” Stark asked.

Natasha had to concede the point. “You think he picked up a shard of the Lyskilden and placed it into that scepter, and that it allows him to touch things?”

“My hypothesis is that yes, he did. The magic in the cavern you described, on the island today. It glowed blue.”

“It did.”

“And what other sorcerous thing do we all know of that glows blue? Going back to my earlier statement—” Stark began to redo the fastenings on his shirt. “—there cannot be too many explanations. I think, given time and the proper lenses to magnify the light of my own piece of the Lyskilden, I can build a compass that will let us gather the direction Loki has traveled. And as familiar with the currents as I am in this region, I may be able to take you, if not his destination, at least I can give you his bearings. It’s more than we have now.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” Steve asked. “Get to work.”

Stark gave him a very obnoxiously indifferent salute. “Aye-aye, Captain,” he said, and, grabbing Pepper’s sleeve, headed below.

“Have we extra clothing for the duke and myself?” Steve asked Natasha.

“No, but we’ve bolts of some cloth we were hoping to barter for information if we needed it.”

“I made my own clothes when I was a cabin boy. I suppose one doesn’t need to fall out of the habit.” Steve shrugged.

Thor, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable, and Natasha could rightly guess why. Being royalty, clothing was handled by tailors and seamstresses. Thor had had the greatest adjustments to make on the two years they had been aboard the _Angel_ together, but he had adapted well. Some things still gave him pause, though. 

“Perhaps Miss Lewis may be able to offer you aid,” Natasha said. 

Thor’s face immediately cleared. “That is a wonderful idea, Lady Romanova—” For no amount of correcting him could convince him that every woman shouldn’t be addressed as ‘Lady.’ “—I shall ask her forthwith.”

He headed across the deck to do just that, leaving Steve and Natasha standing there alone.

“In truth, they’ll all need to sew their own clothing,” Steve said, looking at Thor’s three servants. “I recall setting sail with them in search of Loki, but after that, it grows…a bit dim, honestly.”

“It will come to you in time, I’ve no doubt. Orders for now, though?” Natasha said.

“As much as I’d like to sail on and put this island in our wake, we’ll give Tony some time to work on this mystical compass of his. No need to make sail and eventually have to turn around and retrace our steps.”

“Aye,” Natasha agreed. Since she spotted a deckhand that should have been in the bilge swabbing rather than on deck, she gave Steve a nod and started to head for the fo’c’sle. Steve, however, cleared his throat. “Something you need, Cap?”

“You haven’t said where Clint is, Natasha.” Steve regarded her seriously. “Is he…”

“He lives,” Natasha said, and she could see Steve visibly relax. “But he was taken by Loki during the attack on Tortuga. So now he’s on his way to becoming a Draugr.”

And if that happened…he might as well be dead.

Natasha’s stomach hurt.

“Tony’s compass will work,” Steve said, looking every bit confident in his assertion as Natasha felt doubtful.

“It had better,” Natasha said, and jumped down, striding off and determined to put the fear of the Romanov Dynasty into a random deckhand. It didn’t make her feel any better, but it gave her something to do.


	8. The Reckoning

Natasha didn’t dine with the rest of the crew. She never offered a reason why. She merely took her portion of whatever was being served in the galley that day—usually ship’s biscuits, a serving of beer, and a cup of lemon juice—and retired quietly to her cabin to eat. Most days she did not eat, but the others did not need to know that.

She could recognize the signs that she did need to eat that day, though. The fight with Sif had taken a lot out of her, so that she could feel her body beginning to knit itself together and heal from the bruises and blows that had rained down upon her. Her ankle throbbed. It needed ice, but they had none of that to spare. Food would help her heal more quickly, but she simply did not want to eat.

She stared at the two ship’s biscuits on the plate in front of her as though with the power of her thoughts alone, she could change them into a fine broiled steak, the likes of which Volstagg might serve if one of the grass-fed cattle from the herd of Tortuga had been slaughtered for a visiting dignitary. Food well-prepared changed things somewhat, but most everything still tasted like ash on her tongue. The meal spread out in front of her was likely an insult to the human tongue to begin with, not even taking into account the curse that the shattered Lyskilden had laid upon Natasha.

A knock on her door made her look up. Stark never knocked, Pepper never bothered to visit, and Steve’s knock was usually a great deal less hesitant than that. Perhaps it was Thor. “Enter,” she said.

It was Jane, holding a hammered tin plate. The brunette looked in a bit nervously. “Thor said I would be able to find you here, and I thought you might like some company with which to break your fast?”

That was the last thing Natasha wanted to do, especially when she was already faced with the reality of needing to eat, but manners required that she invite Jane in. “I fear there isn’t much room.”

“It’s fine.”

“You may have the table, I’ll sit on the bunk.” Natasha collected her plate, waving vaguely with her free hand at the table. 

She could tell that Jane was deeply uncomfortable, but the woman did seem determined. “I do apologize for the intrusion,” Jane said, rearranging her skirts around her legs as she sat. “But I wondered if I might… That is to say, I have a few questions and Thor, darling that he is…”

Because she had absolutely no choice in the matter, Natasha took a bite of the biscuit. Long practice kept her from grimacing at the dry taste. “What do you need to know?”

“If you wouldn’t mind telling me, I find I have a thirst to know about what happened to you five years ago. To all of you.”

“It’s a rather bloody tale, Miss Foster. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Jane, please. There is no need for formality in such close quarters.” Jane made a fluttery motion with her hand that told Natasha the brunette was still nervous, but trying to hide it. “The crew either calls you Natasha or Romanova, after all. And for now, I am doing my best to be part of the crew.”

Natasha studied her. “It is quite a different style of life to the one you’ve known.”

“But that does not mean I am not willing to give it my all.” Jane paused. “Natasha.”

Natasha inclined her head, acknowledging the attempt for what it was. But before she could reply, a light tap on the door made her look over. Pepper poked her head in. “Is there room for one more?” she asked.

Barely, Natasha thought, but she squeezed closer to the wall so that Pepper could sit next to her on the bunk. Pepper’s presence was a bigger surprise than Jane’s. Jane, she could understand, as the woman had questions. But Pepper had spent two years being polite and nothing more to Natasha. She’d acknowledged that Natasha had helped save Stark, but she hadn’t appreciated the lie that Natasha was nothing more than a fashionable lady’s maid. Natasha had long accepted that this was the way their relationship was to be.

“My apologies for the intrusion, but Jane had said that she planned to ask you about the _Ferrous_. I thought you might require assistance,” Pepper said. She eyed Natasha’s plate in a way that told her that either Stark or Pepper had put it together that the curse had affected Natasha’s appetite. Natasha put that aside. It did not matter to her what either Stark or Pepper thought.

“You are in good time,” she said. “Jane had just asked.”

Pepper nodded and took a bite, gesturing for Natasha to continue.

For a moment, she was at a loss for words. Russians could tell great, fluting stories of mysticism and the supernatural, stories that were bred into them so deeply that at times Natasha wondered if she would find the words etched into her bones. Before her fall into the hands of Ivan, she had heard such haunting tales of the Rusalka, young women scorned and unlucky in life and love, doomed to walk the earth and kill unsuspecting men that wandered close to their watery graves. That ability to tell a complete tale and captivate an audience, however, had completely passed her up.

She cleared her throat. “You’ve no doubt guessed from my name that I am Russian, though I do not sound it.”

Jane’s eyebrows shot up.

“So it is fairer to say that I was Russian, and now I am not anything. But even so, in Russia, it is very cold, so cold that when I think of Russia, I think of the cold. And I had…reasons for leaving behind the things I did, to put as much distance between my country and myself. I applied for the position of Lady Potts’s lady’s maid when I discovered she would be taking a voyage to Jamaica on the ship the _HMS Ferrous_. I was desirous of a warmer climate.”

A line appeared between Pepper’s eyebrows. “But you came to work for me over a year before the voyage.”

“I am patient,” Natasha said, shrugging.

“Evidently so,” Pepper said.

“In my time in service, I met James Barnes—Bucky. He was Stark’s valet. We had…a dalliance.”

“A dalliance?” Pepper gave her an amused look. “Natasha, you married him.”

Well, Natasha thought, that was one way to tell the story. At Jane’s startled look, she sighed. “You’ve heard tell of the Black Widow?”

“Yes, but surely it must be false?” Jane looked puzzled. “The tale sounds rather fanciful.”

Natasha had to concede the point a little with a brief shrug of one shoulder. She knew the tale, as it was passed around the villages in the Caribbean. The woman, so mourning her new husband, that she cut down multitudes of his would-be killers in the blink of an eye with naught but a cutlass, so fiercely that when she stepped into the a shaft of moonlight, blood turned her blue dress to black. The Black Widow, avenger of her dead love. 

“Whatever true, whatever false, the title is real: I am indeed a widow. Bucky convinced me to marry him on the passage over to Jamaica. Hours before the _Ferrous_ was attacked by the pirate king Obadiah Stane, even.”

“It was a lovely wedding,” Pepper said. “For what it’s worth.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said, and was surprised to find that she meant it. “But it didn’t last. Stane’s ship came up on our starboard, seemingly out of nowhere. Even the watchman on duty could not have spotted her.”

“It would have made nary a difference if Clint had,” Pepper said.

“Clint?” Jane asked.

Pepper looked at Natasha, expectantly. 

“The missing piece in our crew for the _Angel_. Loki…took him in Tortuga.” 

Pepper seemed, for a moment, like there was more to that statement that she wanted to add, but she settled back with a nod. Her plate, like Jane’s, was already empty. Natasha had a single biscuit left.

“That night, Stane called for a parlay. There was barely time for talks to begin before he broke parlay and opened fire,” Natasha said, keeping her voice level and emotionless.

“I thought parlay was law among pirates?” Jane asked.

“It is. Obadiah Stane was a wastrel of a human being, a blackguard of the highest order. Bucky was the first killed,” Pepper said, her voice quiet. “Stane was faster with the shot, and Bucky, he just fell over the side of the ship. And Natasha…”

“I lost my wits,” Natasha said. “I do not remember clearly, but they say I cut down forty men in my rage.”

“Forty?” Jane asked, looking pale. 

“With Clint’s help, it was close to sixty,” Pepper said. 

Memories of that night were fragmented at best for all of them, though on their time serving aboard the _Angel_ , they had put together what they hoped was a reasonable time-line of events. Stark, at least, had badgered them until they had figured it out. Knowledge, he claimed, was the most important weapon in any arsenal.

Natasha, given her druthers, would rather forget about all of it. Stark could stick his knowledge where the sun had no business shining. “Clint watched my back, shooting any man that dared attack me from behind,” she said. “If Pepper says we killed sixty, then sixty men we did kill.” 

“Sixty men? Were you already a witch?” Jane asked.

“I am cursed, but I am not a witch.”

“It’s not natural, the thing that cursed them,” Pepper said. “It was something Thor called the Lyskilden. He meant to make it a gift to you on your wedding day, so it was aboard the ship with us, in the care of Doctor Erik Selvig. We’d no idea of its true power.”

“It doesn’t seem like something that could curse a group of men, no. It’s aught as big as two fists held tight together, in the shape of a cube,” Natasha said. “It glows like firelight, but it glows blue. Thor claims it gives off no heat, but no man should touch it.”

“It glows? Like the cave today?” Jane asked.

“Aye,” Natasha said.

“But _how_? How did this Lyskilden curse you?”

Natasha moved a shoulder. “As best we can tell, Selvig dropped the Lyskilden when he was shot. Stark has a theory that somebody struck it with a blade.”

“And that broke this…artifact? This Lyskilden?” Jane asked.

“No. It caused a light like nothing I’d ever seen, like a powder keg had blown to the sky, but more intense. It hit all of us like a wave of water. Every man touched by that light was thrown to the deck.”

“Some did not survive,” Pepper said, her voice quiet once more.

Natasha thought of Steve’s love, lost to the sea. The explosion, if that was what it had truly been, had thrown her over the gunwale. She pushed Peggy Carter from her mind and focused more on Jane, trying not to think about how alike the two seemed and looked. Steve likely had already noticed, she realized. “It altered all of us in some way, we think. Loki became like a specter, unable to touch or be touched, a shade of a man. Banner, you saw the effects for yourself today.”

“The demon,” Jane said, crossing herself.

“To Thor, it gave the strength of ten men. Steve, the strength of five, and it gave him the build of a warrior. Clint can see as the eagles do, in dead of night as well as the plain of day.”

“And its gift to you?”

“I heal quickly, though not as quickly as Steve or Thor.” Natasha did not mention the side-effects: the waking dreams, the lack of appetite. “Stark and Pepper were too far away. They were not hit with the Lyskilden.”

“But…” Jane’s brow furrowed. Clearly, Natasha thought, she had seen Stark bare his chest to the entire crew.

“We fought well, but Stane’s men overcame us that night. They left us on a drowning ship and took Stark, who was their original target. He was injured. A mast fell on his leg.”

“The leg had to be amputated,” Pepper said.

“Oh,” Jane said.

“But that comes later. What crew was alive had to survive in the few dinghies that were undamaged in battle.” It had been a long, miserable three days without water until they had found the island that had been their exile and their salvation. “We were rescued by a man named Justin Hammer. He kept us on as crew.”

“Until we mutinied,” Pepper said.

Natasha gave her a long look, but Pepper was staring at her plate. Because Jane was gaping at the both of them, Natasha jerked a shoulder. “Captain Hammer was an incompetent boob who did not know how to treat a crew. Also, one of our own crew was held hostage by a man we knew to be dangerous. When Hammer refused to come to his aid as well, we had no choice but to mutiny.”

“It seems that Thor and I will need to have a talk about honesty,” Jane said. “He did not tell any of this.”

“Cheer up,” Natasha said with humor she didn’t feel. “He likely didn’t want you to know that he sailed under a pirate’s flag for two years.”

“Thor is—was a pirate?”

“If we are being candid,” Natasha said, “at the present, you could be considered a pirate, Jane.”

“W-what?”

“Steve’s flag is one considered by the Crown as a pirate’s flag. We are wanted men and women,” Natasha said. “We forcibly took the ship from Hammer to stage a rescue of Stark. We called it the _Avenging Angel_ and ourselves the Avengers because we sail under its flag. The Crown considers us criminals. Our offense is a hanging one.”

“Even Thor?” Jane asked, looking pale.

“They do not know his true name, but he is a wanted man,” Pepper said, patting Jane on the arm. “His title will no doubt protect him should he ever come under scrutiny.”

That did not seem to reassure the brunette much, so Natasha continued with the recital, “With a full crew, the _Angel_ is a much swifter ship than the _Red Skull_. We hunted relentlessly for months until we found the _Skull_. This time, the battle went in our favor.” Natasha felt a small, humorless smile twist her lips. “One could say that it all comes down to Banner and his demon. The crew of the _Skull_ never stood a chance against a beast such as that.”

Natasha herself had nearly been listed among the casualties. When his demon came out, Bruce cared little for adversary or ally. In fact, he seemed to find something about her fascinating. Steve speculated that it was the color of her hair, which shone like a beacon in daylight or moonlight, that drew Banner’s attention. The beast had chased her all the way across the deck, smashing through anything that hindered his path.

It had eventually been enough to sink the _Skull_ to the depths.

“There was another incident with the Lyskilden during the battle, before Bruce’s demon destroyed the _Red Skull_ ,” Natasha said. “Stane had a second in command, a man named Johann Schmidt. He used the attack as a cover to cross Stane. Stark says they fought, bitterly. Schmidt tried to strike the Lyskilden with his blade.”

“And?” Jane asked, looking very much like a small child clinging to the stories of ghosts told around campfires.

“And now Tony bears a piece of the Lyskilden in his chest,” Pepper said. “The Lyskilden does not take kindly to any blade used upon it. Tony was the only man to survive.”

“But surely something like that buried into his flesh should have killed him.”

“The Lyskilden is a great mystery. Instead of killing him, I do believe the shard enables that iron leg of his, and his arm brace, too, to work like a man’s arm,” Pepper said.

The door pushed open. Natasha’s hand twitched toward her knife, but it was only Stark poking his head into the cabin. “The amazing hearing, however, was a gift from birth,” he said.

“Something you wanted, Stark?” Natasha asked.

“I’ve calibrated the compass. We’ve a direction of our naughty count and missing rigger, and we’re about to weigh anchor.”

Relief made her want to sag, but instead, Natasha picked up her cup of lemon juice and quaffed it. It tasted as foul as she had suspected it would. “Thank you for the warning, Stark.”

He leered. “Anytime, Red,” he said. They heard the _thump_ of his iron leg against the floor as he bounded off.

“I shall let you return to your duties. Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions honestly, Natasha.”

“You could probably just call me Nat,” Natasha said without quite meaning to.

Jane gave her a nod and slipped from the room, leaving Pepper and Natasha behind. Though she was eager to get above-decks and assist in the ship’s departure, Natasha did not move to leave. She knew enough of Lady Pepper Potts to know that Pepper had something to say. It was better to let Pepper speak in private. If left ruminating for too long, the woman would blurt out any thought that crossed her mind.

“Thank you,” Pepper said, taking Natasha by surprise. “You could have been honest about the mutiny, and nobody would have faulted you for it.”

Natasha didn’t shrug, though it was a near thing. “I was honest. We made the decision to mutiny as a crew,” she said.

“At my prompting.”

“Pepper, we’re the stubbornest group of meanest cusses you’ll find walking this earth. If we decide we won’t do something, you could move heaven and earth and we would still be a’right where we planted our boots. Stark was one of ours. You may have pushed for mutiny, but we followed, and that was our choice.”

Pepper studied her for such a long moment that Natasha began to grow uncomfortable. She tamped down the desire to shift in place. “You do understand that Jane is going to realize that no common lady’s maid could possibly cut down forty men, even one in a rage. She will have questions.”

“They always do,” Natasha said.

“Who knows? Perhaps one day you will answer one of those questions.”

“I might,” Natasha said, though she doubted it. Only one person knew her secrets, and she was content with that—provided she could save him.


	9. Tradition

Though the ship was never truly quiet, Natasha found she liked the evenings when the sun settled lazily into the west and the air chilled. A relative peace could be found at any time—false dawn, true dawn, even midday if the circumstances were right and the winds were bonny—but that space between day and night had always called to her. She supposed she was very much a creature of that time, never settling, always shifting.

Aboard the _Angel_ , it meant that the evening crews would be rousing soon, the day crews ready to trade the deck for the hammock. The evening meal had been served, and the sailors were winding down. For herself, Natasha had choked down only what she would need to keep her strength. She normally didn’t mind the food on voyages, though even with Volstagg’s cooking, it tended to be plain fare. Lately, though, she hadn’t eaten much. If it had been any other woman, she might have called it wasting away. Since it was her, she called it disinterest and left it at that. 

The breeze was calm but steady; hopefully, it would keep them going at their current pace through the night, and perhaps even pick up. If it didn’t, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, so she didn’t dwell. The _Angel_ might not have been the fastest ship on the high seas, but she was yare. Natasha told herself she wasn’t worried as she moved about the deck, checking sheets as she did so. She crawled onto the railing, wrapped one of her legs around a sheet to brace herself, and stared out into the sky that melted into a thousand colors at sunset.

Heavy footsteps on the deck alerted her that she was not alone. “Evening, Cap’n,” she said without looking.

She practically heard him give her that stiff nod. “Nat,” he said. “All well?”

“Aye,” she said, and this time, she did look back. “Should you not be hunkered over your maps with Stark?”

“It’ll keep. His compass seems to have everything in hand.” Steve smiled and stepped up to the railing, leaning his elbows against the top and bending forward to get a better look over the side. “She still sails,” he said, sounding like it was mostly to himself.

“Don’t tell him I said so, but Stark—and Pepper—the improvements they have made to the rigging, they help.”

“You look as though you’ve tasted something foul.”

“Aye,” Natasha said again, and turned to look back out at the horizon once again.

“I shall keep it in my confidence. Aught else on your mind?”

Natasha smiled the same frozen smile Steve had presented to her. Steve sighed and nodded as though he understood, and she figured that, of everybody aboard, he most likely did. Both of them turned when another set of footsteps joined them. It was Fandral, who’d fitted into the ship’s crew with ease after his months of being possessed. He looked guilty, an animal caught in sudden torchlight, a bowl of that night’s dinner in his hand.

“Volstagg claimed a second helping was not amiss,” he said.

He was likely finishing out the rest of her portion, Natasha surmised, and from the glance Steve gave her, he knew it, too.

“Is there so much of the stew leftover?” Steve asked.

“Aye, Volstagg made too much—not that that’s common, Cap’n, Sir, it’s just that he—”

“Fetch Volstagg and the rest of the victuals, and anybody belowdecks not asleep. It would be a shame to let good stew go to waste.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Fandral said, and scampered off.

Natasha thought that was going a bit far on Steve’s part in order to make sure one of his crew was eating enough, but she said nothing. It had been three days since Stark had finished his compass. Three days on the trail of Clint and Loki, and three days since she had last eaten.

She did need to eat. She knew it, but she ignored it.

Since the lure of second helpings would draw a crowd and she had no desire to climb to the crow’s nest for solitude, she took up a much better spot on the deck and waited for the others. Steve remained where he was, leaning against the railing and studying the horizon. What he saw, Natasha would never know. She and Steve, though they had reached an accord, did not actually understand each other on that level. It made for a good dynamic aboard the ship, but at times it did frustrate her.

The others trickled in, in twos and threes. Thor accompanied Jane and Darcy, the latter of whom dug into the second helping of stew with gusto. Coulson strolled up behind them, nodding quietly as he took his place on a gunwale. Stark came bounding up with Pepper in tow, followed by Bruce, who carried something Natasha could not quite make out in the dark. He sat on one of the gunwales and accepted the stew that Coulson passed his way. Sif was the last to join them, taking up a seat by Natasha and giving the other woman’s stew such a questioning look that Natasha obligingly took a bite. No matter that it tasted like sawdust on her tongue, she ate it all, and immediately felt queasy afterward.

Once the sounds of eating had quieted, Darcy cleared her throat. “May I ask a question? Is there anything to do on this ship that does not involve the ship itself?”

“What do you mean?” Thor asked.

“A play, or music, or a recital, or anything at all that is not ‘hoist this’ or ‘jigger that’ or any of that talk I still do not understand.” Darcy looked at the tips of her fingers as though tempted to lick them like she had seen some of the crew doing. “I do love a good play.”

“Music,” Bruce said, his voice soft in the darkness. “There used to be music every night.”

“No, no, I think Darcy’s idea holds some merit. Cap, surely there’s a thespian in that buttoned-up soul of yours.” Stark turned his obnoxious grin toward Steve. “Let us now hear your Hamlet, my Captain. Don’t be shy.”

“Perhaps another night, Stark,” Steve said, shaking his head. He gave Natasha an exasperated look.

Stark glanced over at Natasha with a decided gleam in his eye. “What say you, Red?” he asked. “We should be so lucky to hear your take on some of the great roles of the bard himself, should we not? You could be your very own Miranda at sea, or perhaps Desdemona, or—I know! We have a Lady Macbeth in our midst, do we not? ‘Come, you spirits, that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here’—”

“Anthony,” Pepper said, decidedly not amused.

But Stark had that gleeful look on his face that Natasha knew well. Internally she rolled her eyes. She knew the work as well as any other educated young lady. Stark’s words would not get to her.

“—‘And fill me from the crow to the toe top-full of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood’—”

“Truly,” Coulson said, his voice bland, “you have a fine memory, Sir Stark. For a scientist.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Stark asked, swinging in his direction.

“It means that perhaps we should have some music?” Jane said. “Clearly, Nat never desired a life on the stage, and we should respect that. Does anybody play or sing? I confess, my skills with the spinet are not much in handy at the present moment.”

The original Avengers tensed, though Natasha doubted Jane was noticed. During earlier voyages, there had been music almost every night. Songs sung in voices roughened by the salty air, of course, but more than that, there had been… Clint was clever with any bow, be it for arrows or strings. He’d made his violin weep or cheer, or whatever the crew needed. In that moment, Natasha felt his absence almost like a hole inside of her.

“There is always this,” Bruce said, fiddling with his spectacles so they caught the light. He shoved the box Natasha now recognized forward with one foot. Her stomach plummeted as Darcy leaned over to pull Clint’s violin from the box.

“Ooh,” she said, looking about eagerly. “Who plays?”

“Nobody,” Natasha said, her voice flat. Darcy’s face fell.

“Natasha plays,” Bruce said.

She glared at him. He looked completely unrepentant.

“Probably not very well,” Stark said, snorting. “Who would have time to learn when you spend your days glowering at wayward sailors, Romanova?”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Stark,” Natasha said.

“And?”

“And it won’t work. I won’t play.” She wouldn’t take Clint’s place.

“We could use a little music,” Fandral said. “We need more merriment!”

“I play the spoons,” Volstagg said before he hiccuped.

“Perhaps the captain would maybe let us have a drop or two of his private grog?” Stark asked. “Provided we convince Red over here to saw off a song or two.”

“You’re making it worse, Tony,” Pepper said.

“Tell you what, if Nat plays, I’ll send Fandral to my quarters to fetch us libations a-plenty,” Steve said, and a cheer echoed across the deck. 

Natasha sighed because she could just see Clint among them, goading her with that smirk to pick up the fiddle so that others could have a drink. “Very well,” she said, and she took Clint’s beloved instrument from Darcy. It felt ancient and familiar in her hands, which fit, considering that it had been a gift from the same woman that had given Clint his bow. She rosined the bow and tested the strings, surprised to find them less out of tune than she would have suspected. Darcy watched eagerly, excited about the prospect of music. Natasha did not tell her not to get her hopes up: she was no magician at the violin. That was all Clint.

Fandral returned with the grog just as she finished tuning, but he also carried with him a small washboard, which he handed to Sif.

“Well?” Stark asked.

Clint had taught her how to play by ear, which was how he had learned. There had been only one set of sheet music he owned, though, which he had lovingly spread out in the private booth in the back room of Fury’s pub night after night as he taught Natasha the basics. If she closed her eyes, and she sometimes did, Natasha could see every line in the page and every inked note. She had it memorized, though, so she began to play.

Stark’s face, as the bow flew over the strings with the ease of long practice, was priceless. Natasha continued to play, her fingers stiff but finding their places on the strings with only a couple of minor gaffes. _Arrival of the Queen of Sheba_ flowed into the night, making the pirates gape. Clint had never played this piece for them. He’d gamely rosined off every sea shanty Stark requested, had learned the accompaniment to the epic Norse ballads Thor sang with a gusty baritone, and there were always the songs favored by the Royal Navy that he already knew, the ones even Steve would sing. But this one, he had kept only for himself and Natasha, and now Natasha played it for him, absent from their circle.

“Oh, I’ve heard this,” Darcy said. “It’s Handel, I know it is—”

“Shh,” Pepper said.

Natasha didn’t precisely lose herself to music—she had the technical aspects of it memorized, but she had never been able to add the sweet soul that Clint infused into every piece he played—but she did close her eyes and enjoy the notes, the way they sounded, the way they looked in her head. As the final note reverberated, Natasha opened her eyes.

“You were saying, Stark?” she asked.

“A gentleman admits when he is wrong. Thankfully, there are none of those here,” Stark said, but his grin seemed almost apologetic.

“You are a true musician!” Thor said, his voice lighting up with delight. “You should have mentioned your skill with the fiddle, Natasha!”

“It’s nothing,” Natasha said.

“Do you know,” Hogun said, and broke off in a stream of Norwegian. Natasha considered herself something of a connoisseur of foreign tongues—nothing could match Russian for sheer beauty—but it always seemed to her that Norwegian was a bit like sneezing.

“Come now, friend,” Thor said, laughing as he clapped Hogun on the back. “Do be kinder to our esteemed First Mate. What he means to ask you is if you perhaps know the tune to _The Thirteenth Ballad of Heimdall, Most Exalted and Respected Guardian and Gatekeeper of the Bifröst Bridge Between Our World and Theirs, Fierce Warrior and Friend_?”

“Oh, very well, Lord Asgard,” Fandral said, reaching for the pitcher of grog. “Use its short name, then.”

“Short name?” Jane asked under her breath.

“Er, no, I’m afraid I don’t know that,” Natasha said. When the faces of all four Norwegians fell, she hastened to add, “Yet.”

“Why don’t we start with something else?” Steve asked.

“Yes. A jig, perhaps, a good one befitting proper pirates.” Darcy bounced, and Natasha wondered how much the captain’s good grog she had sneaked. 

“Not sure you’ll find any proper pirates here, but…” Natasha found her stare meeting Bruce’s as she maneuvered the violin back into place under her chin. This time, when she began to play, the tune was lively and gay. Darcy immediately giggled and climbed to her feet; Volstagg picked up the spoons and kept time, which made it easier for Fandral, Pepper, and Bruce to stomp along in time. By the time Darcy had hauled Stark to his feet to dance with her, Sif had picked up the washboard. Stark’s iron leg stomped heavily on the off-beats, which made Natasha grateful that the crew slept beneath the quarterdeck on the opposite side of the ship. 

When the whistling began, she assumed an idiotic bird had decided to sing along. She looked over to find that it was actually Steve, who had pulled a wooden flageolet from somewhere on his person and was playing along. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he shrugged back. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one to pick up a new talent on their time apart.

Coulson, goaded by Pepper, finally began to sing. “Oh,” he sang in a surprisingly clear tenor, “they say I’ve a lass in every port, but you know I’m a jolly good sort—me ma, she raised me a’right, taught me how to kick and to spit and to fight—”

“Me da,” the rest of the men sang with him, “he was never a’round, go on to the pub—there, you’ll find him drowned, in a flagon of ale as big as a whale—but me, I’m a jolly good sort!”

There were either seventeen or eighteen verses, depending on the inebriation of the singer. Coulson knew most of them, apparently. When he wasn’t playing the pipe, Steve joined in—he loved the verses about the kraken, which fit into Natasha’s theory that Steven Rogers was just a tiny bit mad—and the “jolly good sort” narrator’s fourth kill fit the bill for Darcy’s “proper pirate song” request.

That song faded into another ditty, and a Navy chant for Steve, and a Norse folksong with which Thor could serenade Jane, who blushed prettily through the whole thing. By the time they rolled into another pirate song, Natasha’s fingers were burning on the strings, but she played on. It was like keeping Clint’s spot in the group alive. She could give up the fact that she normally would have gotten a dance from Bruce, and even one from Stark, or sung along with Pepper, if it meant keeping Clint on the crew somehow.

When she saw the exhaustion beginning to leak through, and limbs growing sluggish, she began to play a low, keening song. She knew from the way that they stilled that they recognized it, but nobody said a word. They listened, letting the Romani song echo into the night all around them. Clint had never told them its name. If there were words, he had never sung them. They knew only that it came from his past, but that it was also his favorite. The last note stayed on the wind, rippling through the mast and the deck, and for a second, it was like he was sitting there among them, smiling.

Slowly, the note and the feeling faded. Natasha lowered the violin with aching fingers, giving a small smile.

“We’ll get him back,” Steve said, and the others nodded, somberly. Natasha looked at Thor, wondering for the thousandth time how he felt, knowing his brother had caused this. But the duke looked mournful, like the rest of the crew. Steve tucked the flageolet away. “But for now, I say that it’s time we say good night. We’ve a long day tomorrow, and a new day brings a new tide.”

That it did, and with any luck, Natasha thought as she handed the fiddle back to Bruce, that tide would bring her closer to Clint.


	10. A Twist in the Wind

“Ah, Romanova.” Stark’s voice was dry as he joined her up on the deck the next morning. A few of the crew had been roused already, their heads much sorer for the libations imbibed the night before, while Stark looked only a little sleepy. He was clutching a mug of Volstagg’s coffee like a lifeline. “I look forward to the day when you discover the regular pleasures of things like sleep, a willing bedmate, and a good glass of wine.”

“Sleep well?” Natasha asked without looking up from the ship’s log, over which she was bent.

“Tolerably, yes.” Stark eyed her. The scent of coffee drifted over to Natasha and she missed, in that moment, the coffee served in her homeland: strong and bitter enough to clear out one’s sinus cavities. It would certainly make handling Stark easier. She expected him to wander on down the deck or to start talking incessantly, two of his regular morning hobbies. The shipwright and inventor slept less than most of the crew, but he greeted the day the way he’d left it behind: rambling on about whatever struck his fancy. How Pepper tolerated it, Natasha truly did not understand, but for all of their dysfunctional past, the two somehow made the relationship work. Natasha suspected that their fondness for each other was the reason neither had ever returned to England, though Stark could have garnered them both pardons for the piracy misdeeds in an instant. That was what happened when you owned most of the wealth in England.

Stark, however, did not start talking. Instead, he settled on the gunwale and silently stared into the sunrise. He was in shirtsleeves once more, the right sleeve unbuttoned so that the dull metal bracketing his arm from shoulder to wrist was visible beneath the fabric. During the day, he made sure that both the iron calf and the brace were well hidden, no matter how much their tunics stuck to their backs in the hot sun. She never precisely forgot that he had the iron limbs, but many of the others had.

Eventually, Natasha looked up from the ship’s log to watch the sunrise as well. Somewhere, Clint was seeing the same sunrise.

“It occurs to me that you and I have never gotten along,” Stark said, breaking their silence so suddenly that she looked over at him in surprise.

“You don’t like liars.”

“You lie more than you tell the truth, yes.” Stark gestured at her with his mug. “Have a care to deny that?”

Natasha went back to looking at the log, the sunrise no longer holding anything of interest for her.

“Five years ago, I was respectable,” Stark said. “A respectable man, looked up to in many of the circles of the _Ton_. I had admirers. Granted, mind you, I have never been a moralistic man, nor a particularly religious one—though I of course keep the family pew at St. Paul’s.”

“Of course,” Natasha said, wondering where his inane prattle was going to lead them now.

“But five years ago, my world was small. Contained. I thought myself cultured and erudite, a man with stories of adventures very few could tell. But I was wrong. It is now that I know that. I have done things in these past five years that I would never have dreamed in the life I led from Grosvenor Square. But those experiences, they have taught me that honesty is not measured in blacks and whites. It is not a quantifiable thing. A man can be a liar, but he can also be a good man.”

“A man could also lie and be an absolute thatch-gallows,” Natasha said.

Stark nodded, gesturing with his cup that that was precisely what he had meant. “You and Barton, you’ve done foul things in your life, but you live by your own code, do you not? And it is an honest a code as it can be.”

“Far more honest than most pirate codes, it could be said,” Natasha agreed, wary now. She still couldn’t quite put Stark’s intentions together, though she sensed that something was afoot.

“Too right. And because of that, I think you and I should declare a truce between us and become friends.”

“I beg your pardon?” Natasha asked.

Stark gestured with his mug again. “You get on with the rest of the crew, do you not? Certainly, some of the deckhands likely wet their trousers when you give them that glare—that one right there, incidentally—but even Miss Foster calls you Nat.”

“And you have a hankering to be on such familiar terms with me?”

“Woman, you have a way of saying the word ‘Stark’ like it is drenched in hemlock.” 

The exasperation in Stark’s voice made her smile. “And you would prefer I call you Tony? I can make that sound equally distasteful, if you like.”

“I’ve no doubt of it, but I would prefer it if we put this animosity in our pasts and moved forward as, if not close friends, at least allies.”

“I’ve always been your ally, Stark,” Natasha said. When he gave her a frustrated look, she considered. She did not much like the man. She respected his brilliance, for they would have been hard-pressed to find a finer sailmaster. Stark, for all of his faults, pulled his weight. The man just rubbed her the wrong way, like an itch between the shoulder blades that she could not shake. In that moment, it struck her that they had both held onto grudges that she herself would have let pass years before out of apathy. When she searched herself to find out why she had harbored such a grudge, she did not like the answer. A form of penance over Bucky’s death was so…common. Nor did she like Clint’s voice in the back of her mind telling her that he had told her so, that Stark wasn’t such a horrible gent.

“But perhaps I have been a bit cold to you,” she said. “That does not forgive how exasperating you can be.”

“Nothing really does,” Stark—Tony—said with a smile. “So have we an accord? Friends?”

“You may not call me Tasha.” Natasha pointed at him. “Nat or Natasha only, and if I hear tell of your calling me Tasha, I will dismantle that arm brace while you sleep and feed it to the fishes.”

“You seek to limit me already? I am wounded.” Tony put his irony-gauntleted hand over the shard embedded into his chest. “ _Wounded_.”

Natasha smiled and Tony toasted her with his mug. They fell back into the same silence from earlier. This time, Natasha turned from the ship’s log to the navigational charts she had nicked from the sailmaster’s quarters the night before.

Tony frowned. “How came you by those?” he asked.

“You’re a far heavier sleeper than you know.”

“You do understand how terrifying you are, correct?” Tony asked. “So, First Mate, just what is it about that chart that has drawn such fascination from a lowly sailor?”

“This mark here.” Natasha spread the chart over the deck and tapped the mark that had drawn her notice. “It looks like an island, but it bears no name.”

“The cartographer is an eccentric.” Tony drew a small book, bound in leather, from inside his tunic. “Read me the lines?” When Natasha had, he thumbed the pages until, frowning, he found the proper name. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Natasha echoed.

“This cannot be coincidence, my newfound Russian friend.” Tony held the book to her with his finger marking the name.

Natasha stared at it for a moment and then down at the smudge of ink on the map. “When was this chart plotted?”

“I paid the cartographer heavy coin for his most recent work. He assures me that he named many of the islands himself. One would be led to believe that such a declaration includes this particular island.”

“The Isla de la Luz Azur,” Natasha said, drawing out the Spanish syllables. The island of the blue glow. “Could it be that Loki has established a stronghold? It is directly in our path. We could be mistaken in our belief that Loki amassed a crew to attack a city.”

“Or…” Tony frowned. 

“Or?”

“The island of the blue light, correct? I’ve no ear for Spanish, but ‘azur’ must be blue.”

“Aye.”

“Then…” Stark looked down at his chest. “The Lyskilden sank to the depths with Stane, but an artifact powerful enough to do _this_ to all of us, there is no true way to discover whether or not it remains drowned, is there? The compass I designed for Rogers, it deals with locating the shard of the Lyskilden we assume is in Loki’s scepter.”

“You think the Lyskilden is on this isle?”

“We’ve witnessed much crazier happenings, Red.”

Natasha ran a hand over her face, tired and fearful and hating the uncertainty that set like a lump of bad porridge in her belly. “So it is possible we’ve been tracking the Lyskilden this entire time and Loki is somewhere else entirely.”

“That was always a possibility. Though, the Count of Jotunheim is a smart man. A clever one, certainly, as the crow calls. It could be that he has worked out the same compass I have and this island is his destination as well.” Tony shrugged his good shoulder. He picked up the navigational chart to study it. “If he has, we might be in luck for the first time on this journey.”

“How do you mean?”

“See here? There is a current.” Tony traced lines on the map with his fingertip. “If you will look in the book, the finer detail in the drawing of the map reveals that there is a natural harbor on the island’s eastern side. I can almost guarantee that if he is on that island, he will be in that harbor.”

“You think we might sneak up on the other side?” Natasha asked, putting it together.

“Smarter than I give you credit for, Nat.”

Natasha ignored the gibe. “We should alert Steve,” she said. “How much longer will the altered course take?”

“A half day’s hard sail, if I had to guess. Given time and knowledge of the weather patterns, I could provide a better estimate.”

“Best work up a better estimate while you can. I’m off to wake the captain and let him know of our findings.”

“Is that all the gratitude I am to receive?” Tony called after her as she strode off, leaving him to his charts. “If that’s the case, I’m not certain I want to be friends anymore!”

Natasha laughed as she headed below.

*

“It’s a strong theory,” Bruce said when they held a council in the wardroom while the crew worked away above. “The thought of the Lyskilden being dredged up from the sea this entire time, it makes me significantly uneasy, for reasons I am sure nobody here need question…”

“It is my responsibility,” Thor said, looking grim. He stood off to the side of the cabin with his arms over his chest, his sleep shirt billowing about his massive frame. The ties at his chest and wrists were undone. “Just as Loki is my responsibility.”

Natasha didn’t give a fig about responsibility. They had a problem; she needed solutions rather than claims of responsibility.

Steve also had his arms crossed over his chest. He stood at the head of the table. “I had always assumed that if somebody were to discover the Lyskilden, we would somehow be able to feel it,” he said.

“Why?” Tony asked. He pounded his fist into his chest, making the shard glow brightly for a brief second. Though a few of them flinched at the movement, that was the only outward reaction. “None of you felt that, correct?”

“We certainly heard it,” Bruce said.

“There is no mystical connection between us and the glowing blue box that cursed us. The only bonds we share are those of colleagues. I assure you, in our time apart, I gave Loki no more than a thought in passing. None of us felt the moment Loki took control of Clint’s faculties.”

Natasha stayed quiet. When she had gone to collect Bruce from the jungle, she had assumed Clint would be waiting for her when she returned to Tortuga, were he not called away on another of Fury’s errands. Clint had always waited for her. She always waited for him. But there was never a mystical feeling, deep inside, no ability to sense when the other was near or in peril. The only change was that of late, his smile had a way of making her heartbeat speed up. She needed no mystical Norwegian artifact to explain that, though. 

“So how certain are we, then?” Steve asked.

“Whatever is on that island has something to do with the Lyskilden. Whether it be Loki’s purported shard in his scepter or the Lyskilden itself, I could not tell you, though.”

“So do we approach the isle with caution?”

“The _Angel_ is light, and fast—and yare.” Natasha took a deep breath. “If St—Tony thinks we will lose only half a day at best, it may be worth it, Cap.”

“So your vote is for the alternate route?” Steve asked. He’d raised his eyebrow at the name.

“Aye.”

“Stark?”

“I cast my lot in with Red.”

“We need to mark this as the day that Natasha and Tony agreed upon something and perhaps celebrate with a feast,” Steve said, and both of them gave him the same sarcastic smile, which made him shake his head. “Doctor? Your Grace?”

“I am for the direct approach,” Thor said, “but I will go along with whatever the group decides as a whole. We have had discord before. It ended with the Captain and myself in the ice, my brother on the rampage, and Mister Barton unfortunately under the thrall of my brother’s spell. Whatever choice we make going forward, we do it together.”

“Good man,” Steve said. “Doctor Banner?”

“Caution is an approach we’ve never tried before,” Bruce said. “I for one would enjoy a bit of novelty.”

“Well put.” Steve nodded. “Very well. My deepest apologies, Your Grace, but it looks like we are to be sailing upon Tony’s alternate course.”

“A half day is not too much time to lose at sea,” Thor said with an incline of his head to the captain. “Though I confess that I am nervous that the Lyskilden may be once more on the surface.”

“Take heart,” Tony said. “We could arrive and discover naught but your evil brother and two hundred slaves under his thrall intent to cut us down where we stand.”

“Truly, Tony, you are a comfort to us all,” Natasha said.

“I try,” Tony said, presenting to her a courtly bow.


	11. The Isla de la Luz Azur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one brief vocabulary term today! _Fighting top_ \- a platform that could serve as a rest area for sailors working the sails—during battle, sailors could fire muskets or toss grenades from this platform, generally located below the crow’s nest. Read up, me hearties, yo ho!

Their meeting proved held in vain: a tempest rose that afternoon, requiring all hands on deck. Even Jane and Darcy were called upon, Jane bringing sustenance to the crew as they battled to keep the sea from sweeping away pieces of the _Angel_ , and Darcy leaping at Natasha’s commands. She was underfoot more than she was on hand, but the brunette soldiered on so bravely that Natasha reevaluated everything she had thought about Jane’s lady’s maid. The storm raged throughout the night, breaking the next day into rainfall that proved more of a discomfort than a true hindrance. It gave Natasha and Pepper time to lash themselves to the mizzentop yard and repair a giant tear in the topsail. Coulson and Bruce used the reprieve to repair what lines they could and replace those they couldn’t, while Tony fixed the belaying pins. After some time, Darcy joined the two at the topsail, putting her lady’s maid skills to good use.

When Tony made a comment about the sewing being women’s work, Pepper ‘accidentally’ dropped her boot on his head. He gave them a look of wounded innocence before he stalked off.

“What?” Pepper asked when Natasha and Darcy gave her impressed looks. “It prevents Natasha from shooting him.”

“Waste of a good bullet,” Natasha said. The rain made for less than ideal conditions, but the winds were calm enough that they did not have to remove the sail completely and haul it to the deck. If Darcy occasionally gripped the yardarm in terror when the ship caught on a swell, Natasha could not blame her.

The sun did not appear until the day after that, which meant that they had no true way of knowing how far off course they had been blown. Broken lines were mended or replaced, a new coating of tar was laid down over damaged gunwales. Natasha kept her anxiety in hand by filling her hours: teaching Jane and Pepper to wield a cutlass, arguing with Tony, providing whatever assistance with the carpentry that Bruce required. After supper, Steve challenged her to a chess match. He beat her resoundingly, and Natasha knew it was because she was more distracted in worrying about Clint than she cared to admit.

The cry of “Land, ho!” pulled them all from their cabins the next morning. Hogun, who had first shift watch, waved as the Avengers scrambled to the fo’c’sle to get a look. Stark hurriedly pulled his reference book from his pocket and flipped through to the proper page. “Oh, Poseidon’s mercy,” he said. “It’s the Isla de la Luz Azul—and we’re in luck, to be coming up upon the other side.”

“So Loki might be on the other side of the island?” Steve asked.

“Or the Lyskilden, if we’re truly unlucky.”

“Let us hope for luck and pray for mercy,” Steve said.

“Amen,” Coulson said, kissing his St. Christopher’s medal.

“Rouse the crew, all hands on deck,” Steve said. “Prepare to drop anchor.”

Immediately, they scrambled to obey. Natasha’s heart, which had been in her throat from the moment she’d heard Hogun’s call, settled somewhat, though not enough for comfort. Soon, she would know if they’d found Loki or not. But before she could hurry off to trim her sail, Steve grabbed her arm. “Once we’ve dropped anchor, gather Sif and His Grace and come to my quarters. How mad would you say Coulson is?”

“Given the inclination, he could make Tony Stark look like a sane man, Cap’n.”

“Wonderful. He can come along.”

*

“Somebody should tell Captain Rogers he is cork-brained.”

Sif, as it turned out, was not at all fond of the jungle. The Isla de la Luz Azur was of a much rougher terrain than the island where they had been enslaved with their minds imprisoned. Certainly, the woman warrior was cheerful—she was never anything less, Natasha had discovered—but she was also unafraid of making her opinion known.

“Come, Lady Sif,” Thor, who was bringing up the rear of their odd quartet, walking along behind Coulson, “surely you must enjoy the chance to be off of the ship.”

“There are bugs as big as my fist, Your Grace,” Sif said.

Natasha personally found that complaint perfectly valid. Behind Sif, Coulson gave her a bland smile.

“Tell ye what,” she said, whacking at another frond with her machete so that it would allow them to pass. “We all survive this mission, and I’ll tell the captain so myself. To his face, even.”

“Did you not just call our captain a round mouth rattlepate just yesterday?” Sif looked confused. 

“She did not say that the occasion would be a rare or particular one,” Coulson said.

“I like this,” Sif said. “I enjoy this informality you share with your captain, your crew. I have every hope that we will not perish at the hand of Lord Jotunheim so that this happiness may continue.”

“We will do our best,” Natasha said, tossing a salute over her shoulder.

There was no map of the island, so Natasha had borrowed one of Tony’s compasses—since they were friends now, she had asked first. She had her cutlasses strapped to her back, but she’d left her brace of blunderbusses with Jane. Thor had his battle hammer swinging loosely from his fist. With his Lyskilden-based powers, he could destroy a mainmast with that hammer alone, so it reassured Natasha somewhat to see it. Coulson had a brace of knives across his chest and a cutlass on his belt, mirroring Sif’s own collection. They hiked east, hoping that they would arrive on the other side of the island by nightfall. An hour past dusk was the time Steve had marked for a potential attack. The _Angel_ was going to invade the harbor, ship or no ship, and hopefully the three of them would reach it in time for any battle that ensued.

It wasn’t one of Steve’s better plans, but it beat sitting on a ship all day waiting.

Three hours later, they paused to eat and rest; it would not aid anybody to exhaust themselves before they had even reached the ship. Sif and Thor at least made the hike interesting. There were tales of legends from their home country to share, even if they stumbled over a few of the English words for the tales. Sif was regaling them all with a tale of the great Heimdall when they reached the acme of the island. The harbor spread out below them, widening out into an impossibly blue sea.

“Oh,” Sif said, stopping in mid-sentence.

As one, the four of them looked at the ship in the cove. “Loki,” Coulson said.

Natasha bit back any relief she might feel. The ship, which she assumed that Loki must have stolen, was a frigate, crewed by anywhere between a hundred and fifty to two hundred. From the reports Fury and Coulson had given them in Tortuga, the ship was likely operating at capacity. How many of those people still had their humanity, Natasha wondered? How many had become full Draugr? If the fisherman had told her aright in Tortuga, there might be a fair few on that ship. Clint might be among them.

She took a breath, reminded herself that Clint was one of the most stubborn chubs in the Caribbean. If there was anybody that could resist becoming a Draugr, it would be him. He would be too busy arguing some trivial point to succumb to such simplicity of mind.

“Come,” she said. “The sun will draw low in the sky, and we need to be on the shore by the time that happens.”

They headed down to the beach. It was tricky to stay out of sight, but Coulson discovered a set of caves off to one side of the sand that could shield them until dark fell. It was only a matter of waiting, which wouldn’t take long; the sun was already beginning to melt into the horizon.

“What do you suppose he’s doing upon this island?” Coulson asked as he passed out their supper rations. “What is the lure for him?”

“Perhaps he heard the island’s name?” Thor asked. “He must have come to the same conclusion we did.”

“Something feels off,” Coulson said, shaking his head.

Natasha nodded. She decided, rather than wrinkling her nose at the offered rations, to chew and swallow quickly, washing the foul taste down with her canteen. “I know not what.”

“I suppose we’ll have to find out the difficult way.” Coulson finished his own rations and settled back against the cave wall. To Natasha’s amusement, he shut his eyes and dropped off to sleep on the spot. This seemed like a fine idea to both Sif and Thor, for each followed suit, leaving Natasha to keep watch. She did not mind. It gave her time to stare across the darkening harbor and at Loki’s ship, as though the power of her gaze alone would draw Clint to her.

Eventually, slowly, the sky darkened to the appropriate hue that would hide their trek across the sand. Natasha awoke her companions, and they moved off as a pack. At the edge of the water, they all removed their boots, tying them over shoulders and around necks. Thor, as the strongest swimmer, led the way, his giant hands cutting through the water like paddles. Natasha had learned to swim as a child, after her time in the palace, so she did not fear the long swim. When they reached a certain distance from the ship, she took a long, deep breath, filling her lungs with air, and dove beneath the surface. 

There were no shouts when she surfaced again, this time next to the hull of the ship. A second later, Sif’s head popped up, water streaming off of her hair. She gave Natasha a questioning look. Natasha shrugged in reply. When Thor and Coulson joined them by the hull, she gave each a tiny salute and began to climb. It was difficult because the hull was slippery, slimed from years of the sea, but she gritted her teeth and held on. She could hear the hiss of Coulson’s breath next to her whenever he slipped.

By the time she reached the gunwale, her muscles were burning so hard that she could taste citrus on her tongue. She breathed carefully: in once, out once.

This was the part of the plan, she knew, that included the most risk. Loki would have a watch-team if he was a smart sailor, and she had no way of knowing if the _Angel_ was truly coming or if calamity had befallen the ship in the day they had been apart from it. But considering that she was clinging to the hull of the enemy’s ship, it was a mite too late to back out of it now.

“Godspeed be with you,” she whispered to her companions and, hauling herself level with the gunwale, she peered over it. There were a few sailors upon the deck, but nobody was actively looking her way. Trying not to groan from the effort, she pulled herself over the side and landed with cat’s feet on the deck. She streaked across it, ducking behind a pile of rigging. While she untied her boots from her shoulder, she risked a couple of peeks at the sailors wandering around and had to fight down a strong feeling of deja vu. 

Sif joined her after a moment, strengthening the sense of deja vu. “These sailors, they are possessed, yes?”

“Yes, like you and the others were on the island.” Natasha pulled one boot on and then the other, keeping her movements silent. Loki had marked these slaves with his scepter, she knew, according to Coulson and Fury. If they were anything like the fisherman back in Tortuga, each would bear a symbol somewhere on their skin. Natasha suspected that breaking the symbol—in the fisherman’s case, with the swipe of a sword—would break the trance.

Provided, she thought as she and Sif watched a sailor that had to be at least nineteen hands tall stride by, a blank look in his eyes, they had not already completed the change to Draugr. There must be some full Draugr by now, for no human could be that tall naturally. There was a waxy gray cast to the sailor’s skin that she could not be certain was the darkness or an effect of Loki’s sorcery.

“Clint will be up high,” she said, speaking softly to avoid being overheard. “Remember, keep silent. If you cannot break the thrall silently, do not risk it.”

“You go, see to your hawk-eyed sailor, madam. Duke Asgard, Mister Coulson, and myself will fare quite well here on deck.” Sif smiled, and for a moment, there was a touch of the predator behind her eyes.

“Very well. Could I get a leg up?”

Sif plucked her up—like she had during their battle in the jungle—and tossed Natasha. The redhead barely managed not to curse, but she did catch the main yard and haul herself up. Apparently, she thought as she steadied herself, trusting that the darkness would keep her from view, the effects of whatever Loki had done to the warriors in the jungle had indeed lasted.

When she was steady, she ran along the yard, grateful for all of that acrobatic training that allowed her to run unaided by any of the lines. The ship was large enough to have a fighting top on the main mast—which was the second of three, though she did not see anybody on the mizzen mast or the fore mast—but Clint wouldn’t be there. Not if the ship also had a crow’s nest. Even so, real fear coursed through her gut as she shimmied up the main mast, clinging to the bottom of the fighting top for a second. A quick swing of her legs to get some momentum and she flipped upward, landing easily on the small platform—

And startling the sailor on watch there. 

Before the man could even open his mouth, she tumbled forward into a handspring, wrapping her thighs around the man’s neck. By steeling all of the power in her abdomen and lurching forward, she was able to flip him over entirely so that she was almost sitting on his face. She twisted about to cuff him viciously with the hilt of her knife, hoping nobody had heard the obvious thump of his body hitting the platform.

“Sorry, Parker,” she said when she recognized the young man. Knowing it was time she didn’t have, she hauled up on his shirt, searching desperately for a mark, any mark.

She found it on the side of his ribcage. So, she thought, Loki did not mark every victim in the same place. “My apologies,” she whispered, and gave him a shallow slice over the symbol, neatly bisecting it. She wiped the blade on his tunic and sheathed it, for there was no way she was going to climb up the mast with a knife in her teeth. Especially not a knife with a man’s blood on it.

Leaving Parker behind, she began to climb. She was younger than thirty, she thought, but she had done several crazy, foolish things in her life. Dangerous, deadly, awful things. She had killed people her half-brother wanted dead for years, until she’d broken free and had killed people for money rather than loyalty before entering into service. The scales upon her personal balance were tipped unequivocally toward death and despair. And now, she thought, she was likely on her way to join all of her victims. She was willingly entering Clint’s territory, where she knew he had a bow, deathly accuracy, and the hearing of the birds. She had no fear of heights, but unlike Clint, she did not thrive in that atmosphere. In all truth, she knew, she was about to die.

She would free Clint first.

Every muscle was tensed as she finally reached the crow’s nest, both ears cocked for any noise on the deck that indicated they had been discovered. And what was keeping the others? The _Angel_ should have been there by now. She pulled herself up to just beneath the crow’s nest, sliding one of her cutlasses free from its sheath as quietly as she could. Coiling all of the power in her left arm, she hauled herself up.

The platform was empty.

Natasha landed on both feet, immediately looking about for any signs of Clint. Had something happened to him? The crow’s nest was _his_ space. She turned…

There he was, five meters away, balanced easily on the rigging. It was all wrong, she could see that in an instant, his expression was off and his eyes were an unnatural, eerie blue. He had an arrow aimed straight at her left eye socket.

Every part of her went cold as though it had been her, and not Steve or Thor, in that ice.

“Greetings,” he said.

Before he could shoot, however, the crack of cannon fire sounded. It rocked the boat so much that Natasha had to leap for a rope and Clint’s shot went wide.

The cavalry had arrived.


	12. Aboard the Trickster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of vocabulary this time, mateys! _boltrope_ \- strong rope stitched to the edges of a sail; _buntline_ \- rope attached to the middle of a square sail to haul it to the yard; _capstan_ \- upright device for winding in heavy ropes or cables (if you saw the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, they use a capstan to summon the kraken); _halyard_ \- rope used for hoisting sails; _repeating pistol_ \- an anachronism used by the author to make sure Tony Stark’s weaponry is the most advanced, as this type of pistol was not invented until years after this fic takes place; _stay_ \- large rope used to support a mast.

His arrow missed.

Something tugged at Clint’s collarbone, perhaps, a certain knowledge and disbelief. It was tempered with the stronger feeling of relief, but Clint ignored all of those emotions because Loki would not like those emotions. He knew of what Loki would approve and what he would not, even if there was no Loki standing there, guiding his actions or making suggestions. Clint understood in his very bones that he had no other purpose on this earth than to serve Loki.

Loki wanted Natasha dead.

The explosion of cannon fire from below sounded once more. His superior sense of hearing informed him that those were the indeed _Angel_ ’s guns. That was how Natasha must have arrived. He categorized the noise, dismissed it as his secondary problem, and focused on Natasha instead. He was to kill her. She swung around the boltrope she’d clutched when the ship had rocked. His arrow missed her by centimeters, as did the next one he fired off as she ran straight at him along the rope.

She jumped and hit him in the chest with both boots. He stumbled back, grabbing a buntline to steady himself. It proved a giant mistake: Natasha used his discombobulation to kick him again, this time behind the knee.

Pain exploded up his leg. Clint ignored it because Loki would find it unimportant. Still, he lost his balance and dropped, catching himself on the same rope he’d been balanced upon. He correctly anticipated that Natasha would follow him down and swung out with his bow. It caught her on the elbow; she grunted and swung backward, away from him. Perfect. If she got close enough to wrap her legs around him, he had no hope of surviving.

As one, they hauled themselves back onto the rope, which swayed and danced in the wind. Clint swung his bow at her again. She dropped low and tried to sweep his legs out from under him. It gave him the opportunity to nock an arrow and fire it off at her.

She dropped once more, swinging all the way around the rope in a circle like an acrobat. She used the momentum to launch herself at Clint again. The blade in her hand caught the moonlight. Natasha came at him, slicing wildly enough to let him know she was trying to force him back. Clint blocked the strike with his bow and stepped in, wanting to knock her from the rope. She could survive a bit more than most folk, but if she fell to the deck from this height, it would make his job so much easier.

Loki wanted her dead.

Loki wanted Clint to kill her slowly, closely, intimately, but dead was dead, in the end.

Clint jabbed out hard with his left fist. It hit the side of Natasha’s ribcage, making her let out a soft cry and step backwards. Perfect. He followed that up, intending to broadside her with the bow once more. She went backward, dodging the hit but failing to gain her footing.

Once again, she caught the rope when she fell. Clint stomped hard on her knuckles. Natasha cried out once more, but did not release her grip. Instead, she flung the knife in her other hand at him. Clint leapt back, his arms windmilling as he tried to steady himself on the rope. Natasha grunted as she hauled herself back up onto the rope, balancing precariously with no guidelines about to help her out. Below them, smoke and shouts drifted up, cutting in and out of Clint’s subconscious.

He steadied himself, snatched an arrow from his quiver. She raced toward the crow’s nest.

He let the arrow fly. Natasha hit the platform in a skid, ducking easily below the arrow so that it sprouted from the mast. Clint grabbed another and loosed it right behind the first, but Natasha was too fast for him. As little more than a blur in the darkness, she launched herself out off of the platform and into the open air. Clint grabbed a third arrow even as Natasha clutched a halyard line. It didn’t even slow her momentum. Again, his arrow missed her by the slightest distance. She was already in mid-flight once more, both feet aimed solidly at his shoulder.

Twin feelings of satisfaction and frustration hit him right before she did.

He tumbled backwards, losing his footing. There was a brief, exhilaration of weightlessness, like he’d become one of the birds he so admired, before something wrapped around his forearm. His free fall jerked to a stop. He looked up to realize that Natasha was hanging upside down from the rope by her legs, her hand wrapped around his forearm. Her face was strained from the pressure.

He snatched an arrow from his quiver and stabbed it into her hand, digging in a good inch.

She gasped. “Damn your blackguard soul, Barton,” she said through gritted teeth, and Clint felt a smile, unnatural and cruel, spread over his face. Blood dripped down like warm water onto his arm. He moved to twist the arrow—how dare somebody as lowly as she catch him, Loki’s faithful servant?—but another knife appeared in her free hand. He got a cut across the back of his own hand for his trouble.

He shook the offended limb and glared at her.

“An eye for an eye, a cut for a cut,” she said, canting an eyebrow at him as she pulled the arrow from her hand.

The reek of cordite and gunpowder clogged the air. “Filthy quaen,” Clint said, and tried to pull free. 

Natasha Romanova did not have preternaturally astounding strength for nothing, though. Even as Clint tried to struggle his way out of the grip, she grimaced and swung her body so that Clint was tossed about like a poppet on the wind. Before he could figure out what her purpose was, she released him.

He flew again for the briefest of moments before his boots slammed hard into the fighting top. Parker lay upon it, quite unconscious. Clint didn’t let that bother him. Natasha, the minute she’d freed Clint, she pulled herself to her feet on the rope, way above his head. She sprinted gracefully across the rope, never missing a step. 

His arrow missed her yet again.

“B-Barton?” Parker, below him on the fighting top, stirred and looked up at him. “Wh-what is happening? Why does my head feel like—”

Clint kicked him; the man dropped to the platform, unconscious.

Unfortunately, it had distracted him from tracking Natasha. She’d used the opportunity to slip from sight, which meant that with her agility and speed, she could be anywhere in the cordage. Clint tuned out the calls of his fellow sailors—they had Loki, they had enough leadership, his immediate problem was Natasha and Natasha alone—and scanned the masts, searching for any sign of his red-headed foe. She was crafty and quick. He’d seen her sneak upon a pack of a dozen men and drop all but three or four of them within a minute.

That was not even to consider the night she had become a widow.

_She is sentimental_. He heard the voice like Loki’s in his head. Loki would think her unable to kill him, but Clint knew better. Natasha had told him of the life she had led, the way she had been raised in that red room in Russia. _Make that her undoing, Barton. She will feel responsible to end you up close. Lure her in._

He kept his bowstring pulled to his ear as he searched, those sharp eyes that were a gift of the Lyskilden scouring every inch of canvas and rope. She was quiet, quieter than a cat. He had no hope of hearing her, but his eyesight was legendary. The very instant she slipped up, he would know where she was and he would kill her.

Movement up and to his left made him twist. He fired off an arrow. It missed. He grabbed a second arrow, but she’d disappeared behind the fore topgallant mast. He waited patiently for her to resurface.

He was the osprey on the wind. The osprey could wait hours for its kill.

The second time she appeared, it was to his right, about four meters up. Clint’s arrow hit the mast where Natasha had been less than a second before. Even as he reached for yet another arrow, she sliced through a stay and swung down. She cut his next arrow from the air with her cutlass.

He dropped the bow and swapped it for his cutlass, meeting her opening strike with a parry of his own. It wasn’t easy for them to fight, not with Parker in the way. Natasha was the superior with the blade, but her hand was injured and he was stronger, far stronger than he had ever been. Every day on the _Trickster_ , his strength grew. He swept the cutlass at her legs, intending to cut them from beneath her.

She jumped high, bouncing one boot off of the mast, and bore down upon him with the sword, a knife glinting in her free hand. He blocked the sword, but the knife tip caught him, dragging a long, shallow, painful cut up his bicep.

He glared. Natasha looked both pained and challenging in reply.

“Are you yourself yet?” she asked, attacking him with a move she’d taught him three years hence.

Clint blocked. “That’s a silly question, princess.”

There was the slightest falter in her step. In a move that some fighters might consider unsporting, she brought her sword crashing down, aiming for his fingers. He yelped and nearly dropped the cutlass. Something deep inside him wanted to laugh. It puzzled him.

Clint retaliated by trying to cut her leg at the hamstring. Natasha kicked off the mastpole and cuffed him on the side of the head with her closed fist, the knife-tip ripping at the collar of his shirt. He moved his head to deflect most of the blow, but twisted about, grabbing Natasha with his free arm. They stood like that for a moment trapped in time, swords locked, Clint’s hand gripping Natasha’s shoulder.

She looked into his eyes.

And then she punched him.

Clint tottered on the edge of the platform, shocked. Natasha spat out a wad of blood, kicked off once more, and launched herself at him, hitting him in the chest even as she caught him with her legs. The sensation of falling once more made his stomach leap to his throat, but Natasha had her legs wrapped around his midsection. She grabbed a rope, slashing it with her cutlass at the same time. Instead of flying, they swung down to the deck together.

“Steve!” he heard Natasha say, and then they hit something solid, warm, and human. “Hold him.”

Arms like iron cables wrapped around him even as Natasha flipped away. Clint struggled; it was smoky and dark and he couldn’t see a thing, but he heard the cacophony of pistol fire and the clash of swords over the hoarse shouts of screaming men. “B-Barton?” he heard a familiar voice close to his ear ask, and he knew that he was being held down by none other than Captain Rogers himself.

“Hold him, Steve. I need to find his mark.”

When Natasha tried to come closer, Clint kicked out at her. They would not take him prisoner. He was Loki’s servant. He would go down fighting or not at all, and this was not acceptable. He struggled hard, trying to get the hand that was still gripping his sword.

“Our Lord in heaven, what in the name of St. Christopher—he’s far stronger than he should be!” Rogers said as Clint fought on.

“He’s not full Draugr,” Natasha said.

“Sure feels like it.”

Clint tried to elbow Steve, kicking against the deck and doing everything he could to free himself. Steve’s grip only tightened, infuriating the archer. This sort of imprisonment was far below him. He should be out there, fulfilling Loki’s wishes and slicing Natasha’s skin from her bones. By luck, he struggled free, only to leap forward and hit the flat of Natasha’s arm across his chest. He hit the deck hard, his breath rushing from his lungs. The cutlass was kicked from his hand and he was once again hauled to his feet, this time wheezing and out of breath.

“Have you finished?” Natasha asked, looking completely unimpressed.

He cursed at her in the Romani tongue.

She tilted an eyebrow. And then to his surprise, she darted in with a knife, aiming for the shoulders of his jerkin. “Woman—what are you—”

“Calm yourself!” Rogers ordered, and it was so like the long list of orders Clint had taken from the man since his time on the _Ferrous_ that Clint nearly obeyed. Only Loki’s tiny voice at the back of his mind reminded him that he was meant for far more than this, that it was his duty to get free and to take down these puny, insignificant mortals. His cursing increased tenfold. 

Natasha looked completely unflappable as she cut the rest of his jerkin away from him. She left a swath of blood from her wound on his collarbone. “Of course,” she said after a moment.

“What?” Rogers asked. “What is it?”

A pistol shot shattered the yardarm directly over their heads, raining down splinters upon them.

“Loki put the mark directly over his heart, like the marks in the ice.”

What was she even talking about? Natasha laid a hand on his chest and Clint’s head suddenly felt muddled and slow, as though he’d drowned his sorrows in drink the night before and was paying for it with a sore head now. “Back, you hell cat,” he managed to say, though his words were slurred.

“My deepest apologies, Clint,” Natasha said, and sliced him in the chest with her knife.

It was not a deep cut. He’d been injured in battle before, knew how to categorize wounds even in the state of high adrenaline, to know when he was deeply wounded or not. This was a shallow slice, just the bare tip of Natasha’s knife, little more than a scratch on his chest. Why it would cause his head to feel as though it might explode like a mortar, or for his bones to sing out once in sudden, sharp, and vibrant agony, he didn’t know. He shouted so hard that his throat hurt and sagged so abruptly that Steve dropped him.

He hit the deck face-first and lay there.

Sensations slowly trickled in. He could hear the unmistakable noise of battle, as familiar to him as any gypsy’s song, but he _felt_ more. Suddenly, it was like his head was all his own, like his thoughts were no longer coated in blue. His world and vision were no longer rimed with him. When he looked at Natasha, he saw nothing but red, red hair and green eyes and pale skin.

And every single thing that had been buried behind a wall of his subconscious broke through.

“Clint?” Natasha was suddenly beside him, crouching close. Her expression, which he hadn’t been able to fully read before beyond the things Loki wanted him to see, spoke volumes. To anybody else, it would have been almost a dispassionate look, but Clint knew better. There were dark circles under her eyes, fear and hope equally mixed behind those same eyes.

“Tasha,” he said, since he couldn’t seem to say anything else.

For the tiniest of instants, she seemed to collapse in on herself, as though she’d lost all of her strength, but he blinked and she was his Natasha again. She reached down and pulled him to his feet. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”

“Like I fought a whiskey barrel and lost.”

“Well, clear your head, sailor, we’ve a battle to fight.” She tossed him his cutlass.

No passionate embrace, Clint thought, not for people like them. He wasn’t sure he deserved it. Loki had been the compelling force behind every single one of his actions, but his body had been the one Loki had used to harm her and the others. Everything inside his skull felt blurry and disconnected, but the cutlass in his hand felt solid. For the first time, he truly noticed the fight all around him. There was Stark, firing with the repeating pistol loaded directly into his arm brace. Rogers, apparently satisfied that Clint had been handled, dived into the fray, rushing to the aid of a dark-haired woman Clint did not recognize. There was Phillip Coulson, a cutlass in both hands and a serene look on his face as he fought off two of the biggest men Clint had ever seen.

“Draugr,” Natasha said, reading his mind in that uncanny way she had, as though nothing had changed between them. “Loki’s enslaved everybody on this ship—”

“That much I remember,” Clint said.

“—And if you’re under the influence too long, you turn into that.”

Clint looked at the pale, green skin of the men Coulson was fighting and felt himself go a bit green at the gills himself. “Thank you,” he said and though he didn’t use specifics, Natasha gave him a nod. “What about the ones that aren’t full Draugr? The ones like me?”

“They’ve a mark somewhere on their person.” Natasha’s eyes flicked down to the bleeding cut on his chest. “You cut it, Loki loses the thrall.”

“Seen him anywhere? I’ve a hankering to put an arrow through his eye-socket.”

“When I do, you will be the first to know.” 

She nodded at him, once, in support, and that was that. Clint began to climb to where he would be more useful, and Natasha jumped into the melee below. No matter that he wished she would stop to bandage that hand first, she had her priorities and he had his. And he needed to be up high with his bow, picking off the Draugr that threatened his crew-mates and as ever, keeping watch over the Black Widow.


	13. An Old Friend and an Old Enemy

When Clint began to climb, Natasha streaked across the deck. Relief had threatened to turn her joints to jelly, but she shoved the feeling away. Clint was himself. He had looked at her and it had been _him_ , so fundamentally Clint, that she’d wanted to do something foolish, like leap on top of him and forget the battle. But there were still others enslaved by Loki’s trickery, and even worse, there were Draugr. Battles did not stop for personal feelings.

When she looked over, Thor was taking on a group of five or six Draugr, knocking the giant beings gleefully about with that hammer of his, while Steve fought two or three. Sif, Hogun, and Fandral, with the strength gained from Loki’s curse, fought alongside the duke and the captain.

Tony, on the other hand, had split off from the group, repeating pistols firing in quick succession of each other. “Behind you,” she said. Tony turned and shot down a Draugr full in the chest with his arm-pistol. He yanked a gun belt from his torso and tossed it to her. She caught it and gave him a startled look. 

“What?” Tony asked. He winked. “Just looking out for my friend.”

“I would like to retract almost every awful thing I have said about you,” Natasha said as she buckled the gun belt around her hips.

“Only almost?”

Natasha spun in place to deliver a kick to the jaw of a slave that was mostly human. The woman fell to the deck; Natasha wasted no time finding her mark and slicing it apart. “Oh, come now, complete forgiveness is not in my character, Stark. Has there been sign of Loki?”

“None. The coward has likely hidden below.”

“He’s a shade,” Natasha said, drawing her first gun and taking a Draugr down with a shot to the head. She tossed the gun to the side, as it wasn’t a repeating pistol like Stark’s. “Nothing can touch him. By all rights, he should be here gloating.”

“Since when have Loki’s actions made sense compared to those of any other man?” Tony asked. 

Natasha wrapped her legs around the neck of an unfortunate Draugr and brought the hilt of her cutlass smashing down on the back of his head until he staggered enough to fall to his knees. She rolled out of her fall and swiftly beheaded him, which sprayed both her and Tony with dark green blood.

“Uch! Romanova! Must you do that? This coat is freshly tailored.”

“Remind me to bite my thumb at you later when it’s not covered in Draugr guts.”

“Madam, I look forward to it.” 

She heard Sif’s cry—more annoyed than distressed—and raced off to help the other woman. On the way, she used a thigh hold to bring another human slave to the deck. He was almost Draugr by his strength alone and he managed to backhand her even as she cut his tattoo. She fell onto the deck, stars exploding at the edges of her vision. When she looked up, there was a Draugr swinging its cudgel toward her head. She rolled; the Draugr fell, an arrow with bright red fletching sticking out of the back of its neck.

She instinctively looked to the mast. Clint gave her a nod, not even looking as he fired off a shot. One of the Draugr fighting Fandral stumbled into the gunwale, an arrow in his eye. There was a splash as the beast fell overboard. She nodded back and hurried on.

Hogun had blood streaming from a cut above his lip, but he grinned at Natasha when she appeared. “How ye doin’, Red?”

“I cannot let you have all the fun,” she replied, and threw a knife between the eyes of a charging Draugr. When Hogun winked, she shook her head and ran to assist Coulson, who nodded his gratitude even as he lopped off the arm of one of the enemy. Draugr poured from below, swarming from all directions, smashing anything that got in their way, including the ship’s capstan. Some fell by sword, some by pistol, and even more by arrow, but they still came. Natasha began to grow weary. Even the adrenaline could not push her so far, not when her hand burned like the forge of Hephaestus himself, and her muscles screamed from overuse.

Beside her, Steve was panting, one hand over a slice in his side. “They never stop coming,” he said.

“Chin up, Cap’n. If we die, a battle this large is bound to become a story in some pub somewhere.”

“Oh, that heartens me greatly.”

Natasha dodged the thrusting stabs from a Draugr that had obviously been some sort of a blacksmith. She whirled, smacked the flat of her blade against his calf to distract him so that Steve could cut off the beast’s head. When she turned, she paled. “Trouble approaching.” 

Steve spun and took a deep breath. “As ever, you are the master of understatement.”

Draugr came at them in a wave, a giant group that crawled over anything in their path in order to get to the Avengers. These were beasts that had finished the full transformation, she saw. Though they wore regular clothing and there were traces of humanity in their faces, their skin was a waxy, sullen green-gray and they were tall and powerful. “What do you think?” Natasha asked. “You fight the forty-two on the left, I’ll take the forty-two on the right?”

Coulson strode up, fussily wiping at his bloodied hands with a handkerchief. Without taking his eyes off of the oncoming horde of murderous creatures, he said, “It seems Lord Jotunheim has been busy.”

“Ho, what’s this? You thought not to include me?” Tony appeared between Natasha and Steve. “I cannot let the two of you have all the sport.” 

“So is this to be a game?” Thor came striding up, wiping at a bloody nose with the back of his hand.

“The person who can shoot the most never has to buy drinks again,” Clint called from the yardarm.

“Kills, not shoots, and—” Tony broke off as a roar cut through the air, even louder than the boom and rattle of the cannons. “Well, now we’ve all lost. I hope we all look forward to paying for Doctor Banner’s drinks for the rest of our lives, mates.”

The entire boat shook, making half of the Avengers stumble. Steve craned his neck toward the _Angel_ and was therefore the only one of them with enough warning. He tackled Natasha and Tony out of the way just in time for Bruce Banner, currently very large, very green, and very angry, to land upon the deck where they had all been standing a second before. The boat shuddered again.

Natasha felt that Tony’s not-so-soft curse aptly summarized her feelings about the change in situation.

But instead of immediately trying to beat them with fists the size of a yuletide goose, the demon let out a giant snort. In a guttural voice that sounded nothing like Bruce’s, he said, “Smash monsters?”

For a moment, there was shock. They’d never heard the demon speak before. Steve recovered first. “Yes,” he said, nodding his head vigorously. He pointed at the wave of Draugr coming toward them. “Smash monsters!”

The demon grinned, its teeth glinting in the light of the fires already started aboard the ship. Real, sadistic pleasure practically lit up its face from inside. “Hulk smash!” it said, and leapt into the crowd, giant arms swinging.

“It has a name?” Tony asked for all three of them.

“Appears so, aye,” Steve said. He lunged to his feet. Before Natasha was sure what he was doing, he’d picked up the flat piece of metal that had sat atop the destroyed capstan and had flung the discus into the crowd of Draugr. Natasha flipped to her feet in time to watch it send four of five Draugr crashing to the deck. “Need a boost, Nat?”

“Aye,” Natasha said. She stepped into Steve’s cupped hands and leapt, snatching one of the dangling lines from the yardarm. Though she didn’t need the help, Clint reached down and hauled the rope up until she could grab the beam. She nodded her gratitude. No other words were needed: Clint turned and began firing arrows into the mob of Draugr, and Natasha sprinted along the yardarm until she reached the mastpole. With her knife, she cut one of the lines, gritted her teeth as she wrapped the line thrice around her injured hand, and leapt.

The rope dropped her clear into the other side of the crowd, fighting closer to the Hulk. Her smaller size put her at a severe disadvantage in a crowd this large, but she cared little. She was far more agile than the Draugr. Even fatigued, she managed to be faster, picking off one Draugr at a time while the Hulk roared and tossed the undead beasts like a court juggler. His laughter sent chills down her spine that she tried to ignore.

She got flashes of the others fighting as she battled on. Steve used the capstan lid like a shield, flinging it at his enemy and using it to block strikes in turn. Tony continually swapped pistols. Coulson’s face never changed, even when he beheaded and de-limbed Draugr alike. Thor, on the other hand, looked positively gleeful as he smashed his hammer into the adversary, and the mirth was echoed in the expressions of his comrades. Half of Natasha’s opponents were felled by arrows to the eye socket.

When it happened for the fifth time, she wheeled in place and called, “Do you not want me to have _any_ fun, Barton?”

“This is where you say ‘thank you,’” he called back, and ran in the other direction on the yardarm to shoot three arrows at the same time, taking out three of Fandral’s attackers in the same shot.

At this rate, she thought as another Draugr charged, he would run out of arrows soon.

The Hulk plucked the charging Draugr from the ground and hurtled it into the sea. Natasha had to bite her tongue before she could point out to the beast that she was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles. When she turned to take on another opponent, however, she was batted to the side by one of the Hulk’s platter-sized fists. She skidded across the deck, colliding solidly with the gunwale.

Three green shards of crystal sprouted in the pole behind where her head had been a second before. 

And then the laughter began, laughter that she recognized well. She turned and Loki was standing there in the midst of the fighting, looking as though he hadn’t aged a single day in the years they’d been separated.

“Loki!” Thor crashed through the crowd. He raced straight for the Count of Jotunheim, hammer already swinging. “Cease this madness at once!”

Loki’s grip tightened on the scepter and for a second, the shade seemed to blink from existence. Thor crashed straight _through_ his brother, stumbling when he met no resistance. He tumbled to the deck and rose slowly to his feet, anger displayed in every line of his face. Loki, on the other hand, seemed amused. “Are you ever going to _not_ fall for that?” he asked idly.

“Cease this madness,” Thor repeated, pointing at the ongoing battle all around them. “Call off your beasts. You’ve lost, brother.”

“I’ve hardly lost, _brother_.” There was something vicious in the way Loki said the word that made Natasha’s eyebrow rise. She climbed warily to her feet. Though the sight of Loki filled her with a sort of rage she didn’t want to acknowledge—the bastard had tried to take Clint from her and turn him into a monster—there was something amiss. Why would Loki show his face on the deck? Why now? What was the shade’s aim?

She was distracted from her thoughts by a heavy tap on her shoulder. “Hulk bored,” the giant green man next to her said.

“Oh.” Natasha looked about and finally spotted a couple of Draugr that weren’t being handled by the others. She gestured to them. “Smash?” she asked. She was rewarded by another one of those terrifying grins before the Hulk did another deck-rattling jump and went to go punch his way through a group of the enemy.

She felt Clint land next to her, an arrow nocked and aimed at Loki’s head. “About time he showed his cowardly face,” he said in an undertone.

“Convenient, no?” Natasha twisted to look around, though she doubted she could locate the reason Loki had picked this moment and not a moment sooner. “What can be his—”

“Very well,” Loki said, cutting her off. He had all of his attention focused on Thor. “You wish the madness to cease?”

He snapped his fingers. Instantly, every Draugr on the deck turned toward him and dropped to one knee, heads bowing in supplication.

“Erm.” Tony, who had his gun raised, slowly lowered it. His eyes tracked to the shade. “This is an unexpected turn.”

“Sir Stark,” Loki said. He spread his hands wide like a host greeting his dinner guests. “Welcome aboard my ship. She is a fine vessel, no? Not quite up to the standards of those produced in the Stark shipyards, but a seaworthy little gem nonetheless. I call her the _Trickster_.”

Tony glanced around the deck and the obvious swath of the Hulk’s destruction across the deck. “Yes,” he said, flipping his hand so that the gun from the brace slid back into his arm. “Clearly a fine vessel. It is likely even nicer without the splinter currently driving its way through the sole of my boot.”

“This is how you repay my hospitality? With sarcasm and trite words? Come, come. Are we not colleagues? Did we not sail for two years under the command of Captain Rogers here? Surely that must count for something.”

“You’re right,” Clint said to Natasha as the others warily moved among the kneeling Draugr, circling around Loki. “Something is amiss.”

“This is what you call hospitality?” Steve asked. “You’ve had your demonic slaves trying to kill us all night!”

“What’s a trifling death threat amongst friends, Captain?” Loki took a step forward and flickered between corporeal and shade. Natasha heard a few surprised gasps. For a fleeting second, Loki looked annoyed, but the expression vanished as quickly as it came. He spread his hands once more. “Yes, that’s a nasty habit of mine, you’ll find. Not all of us were blessed when the Lyskilden made her choices.”

“Yes, let us speak of the Lyskilden.” Tony strode forward, dusting his hands off. “Specifically, let us talk of where she is. Below, perhaps? Or is she still on the island?”

“It seems I never gave you enough credit,” Loki said. “You are far cleverer than you seem.”

“And handsome, as well, but we try not to dwell on that, lest I develop a stuffed head. So what now, Lord Jotunheim? We are here. We have come like the dogs you think we are, so you should bring the Lyskilden out like a good little count, so that we may get on with things that need doing.”

“But you are mistaken. The Lyskilden is not here.” 

“Enough,” Thor said. “Enough of this farce, Loki. It is time for you to come home, brother.”

“Where I will face a trial for my crimes?” Loki asked, turning slightly in place. He shook his head. “But how _do_ you imprison a man whom no bars can hold, Lord Asgard? You cannot, though I grant you leave to try.”

That, Natasha thought, was essentially their problem, and had been so all along. How did you battle an enemy that you physically could not touch? Clint’s salt-tipped arrows, which he had used to slay many of the monsters Fury tried hard to keep the people of the Caribbean from discovering, were useless against Loki. No shackles could hold him, no wall could halt him. He felt no pleasure or pain, so it was impossible to tempt or punish him.

“The Lyskilden, Loki,” Steve said, his voice hard. “Where is it?”

“Yes.” Tony gave Loki a bright smile. “Don’t make us set our Hulk on you.”

As one, they turned to look at the Hulk, who gave a bored snort that made Sif and Fandral edge away from him. The giant green demon poked one of the prone Draugr and snorted again when the beast did not move.

“Your Hulk has no power over me, foolish mortals,” Loki said, but Natasha detected a wavering note in his voice.

Apparently Tony heard the same note. “Can you control when you are tangible and when you are not? Or does the scepter do that?” 

“Ah, yes. My scepter.” Loki tossed it from hand to hand, twirling it as he considered the faintly glowing blue tip. “You have no doubt surmised that I, too, have a piece of the Lyskilden, Sir Stark. What you have not discovered, I think, is the power this piece contains.” He placed his hand over the tip of the scepter and for a moment, he stood before them, as real and solid as any of them. When he withdrew his hand, he was mostly transparent once more. “That, yes, but there is a deeper power at work. I think, with another piece of the Lyskilden so close…”

He closed his hand around the shard once more. This time, however, he did not flicker into existence; instead, a glowing halo of bright blue light encircled his hand. Natasha put a hand up to shield her eyes. “Indeed,” Loki said, mostly to himself. “Indeed.”

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, stepping closer to Loki.

The count ignored him, stepping close to the gunwale to peer over the side of the ship. Natasha could sense that Clint was close to taking his chances and putting an arrow through the noble’s back, but the man’s hand never twitched on the bowstring. “Aha, I knew it,” Loki said.

“Excellent,” Tony said. “Care to share this observation with the rest of us, perhaps? Some of us—well, mostly it’s just Rogers—are feeling a bit lost.”

Steve shot him a dirty look.

“Patience, and you shall see for yourself,” Loki said.

Coulson sidled up to Natasha and Clint, so that he was closer to Loki than the rest of them. “Why do I not feel comforted by this?” he asked idly.

Clint and Natasha shrugged. A splash made them all look at the side of the ship. The Hulk, who’d evidently just tossed a Draugr overboard, gave them a challenging look. After a beat, they turned back to where Loki was leaning over the gunwale, glowing scepter held out over the water.

“Yes, yes, that’s very pretty, Loki—” Tony started to say.

“Aha!” Loki let out a triumphant cry and punched the air with his fist.

From beneath the water’s surface came another blue glow. It was faint at first, so faint she convinced herself that her vision was playing tricks upon her, but the glow increased in intensity, spreading and then narrowing until it was a single pinprick in the water. A chill spread through her, cold seeping so deeply into her very bones that she knew in that moment she might never be warm again.

“The Lyskilden,” Clint breathed, as though not a soul aboard the _Trickster_ could possibly know what it was.

Natasha, on the other hand, frowned. How was it rising through the water? Was it magic? The point of light was wavering, as though somebody was carrying it, which made no sense. When the Lyskilden finally broke the surface, though, she forgot all of her questions. Instead, just like the rest of the crew, she stared.

That was _not possible_.

She heard Steve’s shaky intake of breath. She couldn’t even imagine how he felt in that moment. It was enough of a punch to the stomach for her, and she’d barely known the woman. For indeed, in the water beneath the ship, the Lyskilden cradled to her chest, was a woman. She was very much not dead, but neither, Natasha saw, was she alive. In the moonlight, Natasha could see lines—gills—on the woman’s neck beneath the hair that fell all the way down the woman’s back and to a giant tail that glistened with scales like a fish’s.

“A mermaid?” Coulson asked, sounding as if he were asking about the weather.

“Peggy,” Steve whispered.

Peggy Carter, who had been dead for five years, opened her arms wide. The Lyskilden floated free of the water as if blown on a very strong wind. It drifted up the hull of the _Trickster_ , toward the shocked group standing by the gunwale and staring into the water. 

“Am I to understand that Loki getting his hands on that blue box would be catastrophic?” Coulson asked Clint and Natasha.

Natasha tore her eyes away from Peggy to nod. “I fear if he figures out how to harness the power of the full Lyskilden, as he did with the shard, he would be nigh unstoppable.”

“Very well.” Coulson turned and headed toward Loki with his cutlass drawn and a resolute look on his face.

“Coulson—no!” Clint said, lunging for their colleague. His shout caused Loki to turn even as Coulson raised his blade.

The Norseman vanished. Coulson finished his swing, his sword embedding itself into the side of the ship. Below, in the water, Peggy Carter let out an unearthly screech. Natasha caught a glimmer of fins in the corner of her eye as the mermaid vanished into the water—Tony grabbed Steve before he could jump overboard—Loki reappeared behind Coulson. Before any of them could stop the shade, he materialized completely and stabbed the scepter up and _through_ Coulson.

“No!” They lunged forward as one, though what they hoped to do, Natasha had no idea. She watched in horror as Coulson’s eyes widened and the man slowly, slowly looked down at the scepter sticking through his chest.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he said in a gasping, wrenching voice.

“Why not?” Loki’s smug smile made Natasha snatch up her final gun and take aim. “You mean nothing to me, mortal. I have thrice the power that you—”

Coulson grabbed the tip of the scepter sticking out of his chest and squeezed. There was a flash of blue light like an explosion, so much like the explosion Natasha remembered from the _Ferrous_ five years before. It threw her back; she landed on one of the dead Draugr, half under Clint. When she scrambled to her feet in disbelief, however, nothing had been destroyed.

Coulson was transparent.

Loki, standing next to him, was completely opaque.

The rest of the Avengers were a little slower in climbing to their feet. “Can anybody explain what has just passed?” Fandral asked for all of them. He pointed at the Lyskilden, which was still hovering beside the boat at eye-level. “And how came that box to float upon the air?”

Another pause followed, and then chaos erupted. Loki abandoned the scepter and sprinted for the Lyskilden even as all of them raced for him. 

The Hulk got there first.

The first _smack_ of Loki being slapped into the deck made Natasha wince, even if the bastard had it coming. The second _crunch_ made Clint snicker. By the third, Tony had grabbed a twisted piece of metal from the battle and was using it as a pair of makeshift blacksmith tongs to pull the Lyskilden from the air. Steve was frantically hurrying up the side of the ship, searching the water in vain for any sight of Peggy. Natasha took in the sight of the rest of the Avengers and decided Steve needed her most, so she touched Clint on the shoulder and went to the captain. 

The Draugr all began to rise to their feet. Instantly, Natasha raised her sword, swearing.

“Halt!” Coulson’s voice cut through the night. She turned to see him holding the scepter, which was glowing once more. “I did that. The Draugr are mine to command now—they won’t harm anybody.”

“Are you certain?”

“Aye, First Mate Romanova. They’re under control. Captain Rogers.” Coulson turned to Steve. “The ship is yours.”

The Hulk tossed Loki, now very bruised and battered, into a heap on the deck and snorted. “Puny shade,” he said, and lumbered off to the other side of the ship, where he promptly destroyed a pile of rigging by sitting upon it.

Steve tore his gaze from the sea and gave the deck, covered in the remnants of death, destruction, and chaos, a long look. His gaze lingered even longer on Coulson, who was the same ghostly shade of transparent Loki had been. Unlike the Norse count, though, there was no hatred evident on the man’s face. In fact, Coulson was very fastidiously adjusting the folds of his fine coat over his chest. With a shrug, Steve turned to the rest of them. “Uh, I guess that’s that.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” Tony said. He was still holding the Lyskilden in the tongs, but he was grinning, obviously relieved. “I confess, I am famished. Anybody else? I wonder if this ship has any good victuals below-decks.”

The idea was met with several cheers from the crew, but it did not slip Natasha’s notice that Steve’s gaze went directly back to the sea.


	14. Blowback

Later, after the sails of the _Angel_ had all been furled and the anchor dropped, Natasha found Steve precisely where she expected to find him. He had to keep up appearances, though, which meant he could not in good conscience stay upon the fo’c’sle, peering into the depths of the ocean for all hours. The crew would begin to talk. Even a crew so used to the supernatural this one had superstitions that must be navigated. Steve, growing up in the Navy, knew better than most. The captain’s quarters had the best windows from which to watch the sea.

So Natasha, hand freshly bandaged by a sheepish and human Bruce, knocked twice on the cabin door before she poked her head in. “Might I have a word, Cap’n?”

Steve stood at the windows, his arms across his chest. “If you mean to discuss what I think you do, I find I’m rather busy, Nat.”

Natasha weighed the consequences in her mind and shrugged them away. She stepped into Steve’s cabin and closed the door behind her. “Begging your pardon, but I think of the two of us here, I know my mind better than you. So I’ll speak my piece.”

“I don’t need to hear it.”

“She didn’t recognize you, Steve.”

Steve said nothing.

“If that—that creature—”

“She is no creature, Natasha.” Steve didn’t turn, didn’t raise his voice, but there was a quiet threat to his words anyway.

“She did not recognize you,” Natasha repeated. “She is not the woman you once knew, Steve. That woman is gone. She died five years ago on the _Ferrous_ , same as Bucky.”

“How do you know?” Now Steve did turn. His eyes were red, though his face was dry. “How do you _know_? I thought her dead. For years, I thought her dead, and she was there, just there in the water. It was her. You cannot deny that.”

“It was a creature with her face. If that were truly Peggy Carter, she would have acknowledged you.”

“Did Clint acknowledge you tonight before you broke the curse?” Steve’s eyes cut accusingly to the snowy white bandage around her hand.

She did not move the bandaged hand from his sight, though she did stiffen slightly. “Aye, he did. I saw an expression in his eyes when he first failed to kill me. It was fleeting, but it was there.”

“And what was it, I wonder?”

“Relief, sir. That was how I knew he was not full Draugr.”

Steve said nothing for a moment. “Even so, this is a world we little understand, Natasha. I killed men tonight that were already dead, men as strong and stronger than myself. Others would call those demons, but they fought with swords like a normal man. I captain a ship with a man possessed, a man with the strength of ten, a man with the eyes of a hawk, a woman who heals like none I have seen, and a man with iron limbs that should rust away but work like actual limbs, and myself. I have the strength of five men. Now I have a shade of a man who used to be solid and real among my crew, the man who used to be a shade is a man once more, and you tell me it is impossible that my Peggy could be like your Clint?”

Natasha nearly blinked; it was certainly the most she had ever heard from Steve in one breath. The ex-lieutenant preferred short, pithy statements to the soliloquy. “Steve,” she said, letting her sympathy show in her voice for once. “Steve, Clint was controlled by Loki. Peggy’s changes, they would have been caused by the Lyskilden.”

“And Coulson reversed Loki’s curse just tonight. It is possible.”

“Is it? A man is still cursed. It is a different man, to be sure, but he is just as cursed as Loki was.”

“Then I shall find somebody else to take Peggy’s curse.” Steve turned back to the window.

“Do you feel Peggy would approve of you condemning another to that life in her stead? You know she would not, Steve.”

“Damn your bones, Natasha!” Steve punched his fist into the wall, which of course dented the beam. “Do you expect that I could just go on with my life when I know that she is out there? There is a chance!”

“How will you find her, Steve?”

“The scepter—”

“Turned a perfectly respectable Norwegian count into a madman with a stick,” Natasha said, folding her arms over her chest. “The Lyskilden has brought us nothing but pain. You know in your heart that turning to it will only lead to more pain. It belongs in Norway, in the cave Thor pulled it out of when he had the idiotic notion to present it to Jane as a wedding present.”

Steve fell silent for a long time. She could read the tension and anguish in the tautness of his shoulders and his back, but he did not look at her. She couldn’t help but be grateful. No matter how much she believed what she was saying, the fact that she needed to say it and hurt a man she considered a friend and a colleague brought pain to her midsection that she did not care to examine closely.

So she stood her ground and she waited.

“I would like to be alone, please,” Steve said. The order in the words was too final to ignore.

“Aye, aye.” Natasha paused by the door anyway. “I have one more thing to say. If you do decide to do this, if you go after her, I’m with you every league of the way, Cap’n.”

He gave her a bewildered look, and she thought of him, of Bruce and Clint, and of Loki, all men lost and trying to grasp at anything they could touch because of what the Lyskilden had done to them. “Even though you think me foolish?” Steve asked.

“Not foolish, Cap. Just human.” Natasha gave him a sad smile and let herself out of the cabin. Outside the door, she stopped to take a deep breath. She hadn’t been close with Peggy Carter aboard the _Ferrous_. They were the most similar in class and age, supposedly, but they had never connected. If she had to be honest, the only people she had felt any connection to aboard that boat had been Bucky and Clint.

If Peggy was a mermaid, did that mean Bucky…

No. She was the Black Widow. Her late husband was dead. He had been out of the way long before the Lyskilden had shattered, and thoughts like that would only drive her mad. She allowed herself a moment to gather her wits and her nerves and headed into the depths of the _Angel_. Most of the crew was still above-decks, likely seeing to those captives of Loki’s that had not been made into full Draugr. Nobody knew if their strength would fade or if they would remain that way for the rest of their lives. Sif, Fandral, and Hogun certainly showed no signs of fading strength.

Two hours after Coulson had been turned into a shade, Natasha let herself into the bilge level of the _Angel_ and looked about until she found Loki, shackled to the wall with a tired Bruce and Hogun standing guard over him.

“Gentlemen, if I could have a moment alone with the prisoner?” she asked.

“Certainly, my lady,” Hogun said, executing a short bow.

Bruce, on the other hand, gave her a questioning look. “I will not touch him,” Natasha said, smiling at the doctor. “How do you feel?”

“Oh—fine, fine.” With one final sheepish look, Bruce shuffled off to the other side of the hold with Hogun. 

Loki did not look good, Natasha realized. The beating from the Hulk had left a giant bruise on one cheekbone, and his clothing was tattered, both from the battle on the _Ferrous_ five years prior and from the Hulk. One eye was already beginning to swell an angry red. 

He looked at her balefully out of his good eye. “Come to gloat, Your Highness?”

“Not at all. As first mate, it is my duty to oversee the hospitality to any guests that might find their way aboard the _Angel_. Granted, you likely won’t be here long—” Thor had already begun to make noises about taking both the Lyskilden and Loki back to Norway. “—but while you’re aboard, you’re my responsibility. Is there aught I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable?” 

“You could release me at once.”

“I’m afraid I lack the key to do that, Lord Jotunheim.”

“Ah, yes, you mewling quim, as ineffectual at your promises as your threats, I see.”

The insult nearly made Natasha snicker. Instead, she squatted, crouching down to Loki’s level. There was a meter of space between them, but his shackles kept him bolted to the bulkhead. “Clint told you about my past.”

“He sang it happily and sweetly from the tops of his little bird lungs, he did. He fell over himself to please me, to tell me stories of the great Grand Duchess of Russia, one of the Lost Sisters of Elizabeth. Taken by a vengeful half-brother as punishment to the king, trained to kill and to betray, the only thing a woman is truly good for.”

The barb edged more deeply under her skin than she cared to admit. How much was truth and how much of that was a lie? If Clint had eagerly told Loki of all of this… He was being controlled at the time, Natasha reminded herself. His actions were not his own. She trusted Clint because he had proved himself worthy of trust time and again and would continue to do so.

“He loves you, you know. It colors every foolish memory in that inane head of his. Does he realize you do not feel the same for him? It might be deathly fascinating to see for myself.” Loki’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“Love is for children,” Natasha said.

“Such a precious sentiment. My only lament is that I will not be present to watch as you break his heart like the hammer breaks the glass-smith’s finest creation.” Loki’s long fingers fiddled with the cuff of the shackles. “But…perhaps…”

“Perhaps?” Natasha asked, settling back on her haunches.

“How much is your secret worth, I wonder? Barton will carry it to his grave—he is disgustingly loyal. But I, I have no such qualms. How will my dear brother, the Duke of Asgard, react when he discovers he is not the only ducal power serving above this ship? What will they think when they discover you have lied to them for years? I could be persuaded, you know. Once I strike a deal, I keep it.”

Natasha stared at him for a long time. “Bruce,” she said, raising her voice so that she could be heard by the surgeon.

He looked up and wandered closer, to where she would not need call out to him. “Aye, Nat?”

“I may have forgotten to say this before, but I feel it is important to inform you that I am in fact a princess.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“I shall tell you more later.” Natasha gave him a reassuring smile before she turned back to Loki. She rose to her feet and dusted off her hands. Tension and relief tangled with the nerves of revealing her deepest secrets to another, but she showed none of this to Loki. “Make sure you have a full deck before you play at cards with me again, Lord Jotunheim.” She tipped her tricorn hat at him and started to leave.

Loki’s voice stopped her at the door. “If only,” he said, “Bucky Barnes had known that before he sacrificed his life to save yours, Tsesarevna.”

The verbal sally found its mark. It took everything Natasha had to keep from flinching, but she smoothly finished rising to her feet. “Nat,” Bruce said in an urgent voice.

“Do try and get some rest,” Natasha told the surgeon. “It would not be wise to let the prisoner chatter until your ears fall off.”

“I’ve a muzzle I can use if he annoys me,” Bruce said, and Loki rolled his eyes.

Natasha gave them all nods, even the dozing Hogun, and headed back to the upper levels of the _Angel_. She passed Jane near the crew cabins. The brunette inquired after her injuries, which seemed to have spread throughout the entire ship, but Natasha assured Jane she was not in considerable pain, and made her way above. She drew up short when she neared the fo’c’sle. Clint was seated on the bowsprit, conversing with Coulson, who was standing upon the deck nearby.

“Ah, there she is,” Coulson said as she approached. “We had wondered what kept you.”

“Trifling matters.” 

Clint tossed her a bottle. He was being deliberately nonchalant, Natasha saw immediately. She said nothing and caught the bottle. “Cap’s personal vintage,” he said when she gave the brown glass a suspicious look. “It has nothing on the swill we used to sneak from No Legs Charlie, but it wets your throat just the same.”

“Thank you.” She turned to Coulson, who was leaning on the scepter like a shepherd’s staff. “A toast, Phillip?”

“Nay, but thank you nonetheless.”

“ _Can_ you…”

“I’ve not the foggiest idea, no.” Coulson shrugged. “I shall try it out later. When I am alone and none of you heathens are about to make your jests and your insults.”

Clint put a wounded look on his face. “Oh, come now, Phillip. We would only insult you a little.”

“But you would remember the tales as long as you both live.”

“He makes a solid argument,” Natasha told Clint.

“Aye, he does.”

“I think it is time I carried myself off to the _Trickster_ so that I may fully survey the damage to the ship before I see if I require sleep in my current state.” Coulson started to pay them both a short bow. Natasha put a hand up and abruptly dropped it when she realized her hand would go right through his arm. “Yes, First Mate?”

“Phillip, are you…are you, that is to say, are you handling this metamorphosis to the shade?”

“Oh, worry not about me.” Coulson gave her a smile and a wink. “For every drawback, there is something gained. Think of Governor Fury’s glee upon finding out he has a true spy at his beck and call.”

Clint laughed from the bowsprit. “Aye,” he said, toasting Coulson with his bottle. “You have a point, my good man. I wish you a good morrow.”

“And a good morrow to the both of you as well.” Coulson did them the favor of walking away rather than vanishing from sight.

And then it was only Clint and Natasha left on the deck.


	15. Acceptance

When they were alone, Natasha shucked off her boots and stowed them to the side. She cradled the bottle against her chest with her injured hand and made her way, sure-footed and at ease with the swaying of the boat, onto the bowsprit, settling in beside Clint. They’d sat like this after so many battles and errands for Fury. It didn’t matter whether it was in the crow’s nest, on the bowsprit, or in the back of Fury’s pub. They usually found each other in the quiet.

She preferred the quiet.

Clint wordlessly took the bottle from her and uncorked it. “How fares your hand?” he asked as he handed it back.

Though it pained her like nothing else—accelerated healing or not, her hand still _hurt_ —Natasha made sure to use that hand to lift the bottle to her lips. The alcohol burned like the midday sun at sea. “Don’t do that to yourself,” she said, once she’d taken a long slug.

Clint’s jaw went firm. “At least I missed when I was doing my best to shoot you,” he said.

She nodded. “Ten times. The great hawk-eyed sailor missed me ten times. I am the only person in the world that can make that claim, I think.”

She could see wounded pride warring with relief, and stayed quiet. She knew what it was like to be unmade and controlled, every thought put into her head by tutors who cared little for her or her safety, save that she continue to be one of the Lost Sisters. She might not have believed in magic until the Lyskilden had changed them all, but she had known there were monsters all along.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for Clint to make his peace with that as well.

“Is that how you knew?” he asked.

It had been a strong clue, Natasha had to admit. But even stronger than that had been the small flash of relief that had crossed her partner’s face when the _Angel_ ’s cannons had rocked the _Trickster_ , causing his first arrow to miss. “You were a bit small for a full Draugr,” she said. “Bit scrawny, too. You call that a fight, Barton? I barely felt any of it.”

“I would have you know I was stronger than Steve,” Clint said, gesturing at her with his bottle.

“Almost.”

“I suppose I should content myself that I did not cause any more damage than I did. Loki, he…” Clint was silent for a long time. “He made you _want_ to obey him. That was what he took. I suppose the scepter, it took everything, but I still had parts of me left. My skill, my wits. I remembered everything, but it was like there was a bulwark between how I felt and what I knew. All that remained was that whatever Loki wanted, I wanted that, as well.”

Tony would have chosen that moment to make a jest about Clint finally wanting to eat saltpork, as Clint famously loathed it. Natasha chose to remain silent. She’d known what to say to Steve, she thought, and to Loki, but when faced with Clint, words seemed to wither away on her tongue. She had no idea how to help him or how to respond.

“The worst part, though, is when he took an interest in me, special-like. That scepter…” Clint twisted the bottle around in his fingertips. He had yet to put on a tunic after she had cut the first one, so she could see the marks of battle on his torso. He had at least bandaged the cut over his heart. “He used it to see into my head. He poisoned every memory I have.”

“Every memory?” Natasha asked, pausing with the bottle halfway to her lips. She hated the taste of alcohol, but she needed its comfort after the day she had had. Coulson was a shade, Loki was in captivity, Steve was heartbroken, and Clint was…she wasn’t sure what Clint was. 

“Not precisely every memory, but the ones of import, yes.” Clint regarded her steadily; her heartbeat sped up the slightest amount. “He knows about your past, Natasha. He drew that from my head.”

Natasha put her hand on his wrist, tentatively. She was not usually one for tactile contact, but it felt necessary. “Aye, he knows,” she said. “It will do him little good. Nobody will believe him beyond the ship, and for our crew-mates, I told Bruce myself. You know he will discuss it with Tony, who will delight in confronting me about it at what he considers the opportune moment.”

When Clint looked at her, there was an apology in his eyes. She shook her head, tightly. She had no need for his contrition.

“It matters little,” she said. “It was a different life.”

“I fought him, but I had no hope of defeating him. I had no defenses against him.” Clint rubbed a hand down his face, looking ragged and weary. Natasha wondered if he had been allowed to sleep at all during his time in Loki’s thrall. He certainly didn’t smell pleasant, but she had the less-than-fresh scent of battle clinging to her own skin, so she said nothing. Thankfully, he’d shrunk down from his Draugr size, once again only a hand taller than her. She liked that he felt and looked familiar, if tired. “Now I have nothing of my own. Even my thoughts are not safe in my head. What caliber of a man _does_ that to another? What sort of man pulls another apart at the seams like a used tunic?”

“Not a man,” Natasha said. “A monster.”

The half-smile that quirked at Clint’s lips was forced and humorless. “Do you remember when our lives were common and plain? A simple sailor and a lady’s maid on a big ship, sailing the world?”

“ _Pro Rege et Patria_ ,” Natasha agreed. “Our lives were never plain, Clint.”

“But they are our own. Or they were.”

Natasha tightened her grip. “Aye, we made them our own when we took over the _Angel_.” For the first time, every Avenger, every member of that crew, had been a free man or a free woman, released from the shackles of society that had forced them into roles to which they were ill-suited. “Is that what worries you? That you are enthralled by Loki still?”

“No,” Clint said. “No, he is gone from my head, I can sense that. It’s only my memories that have been poisoned and that bear traces of him.”

Natasha turned his words over in her mind, considering them. To her, memories were fickle things, the strands of reality throughout them as fine as gossamer. Clint had always prided himself on his mental acuity; even though she had taught him to read, he had always done sums in his head with speed and alacrity, and his eyes had always been so sharp that he had always been able to recite the outfits of everybody in the room with either of them when prompted. Only drink muddled his mind, and only when he let it. He did not have a childhood of hypnosis and lies to fortify him against such an attack, as she had.

“I cannot think of them without remembering him within them,” Clint said.

“I am afraid you will have to make new memories,” Natasha said. “I do not think we will find a cure that will simply remove the annoying Norwegian from your thoughts.”

“Were that we could,” Clint said, taking a long swig from his drink.

“Aye, I could think of a few of us that would cheerfully forget him.” Natasha tapped her bottle to his. “A toast to new memories?”

“And to another battle at our backs,” Clint said.

Natasha clicked her drink to his—or would have, had he not beaten her to the punch. Unfortunately, he misjudged whatever Draugr strength he had left, so when he tapped his bottle to hers, his bottle shattered, rum exploding in a geyser down his hand and arm. Natasha jumped.

“My apologies,” Clint said, shaking his hand out so that glass fell to the sea. “I’m no proper judge of my own strength anymore, it would seem.”

“We should count ourselves fortunate you did not break your bow into pieces.”

“I still have some misfortune.” He held his hand up to the lamplight from the deck; Natasha could see a splinter of glass, as long as the tip of her smallest finger, lodged deep into his palm. “Some new memory, eh?”

“Let me. You favor that hand.” She handed her own, thankfully undamaged bottle to drink—he took a long gulp—and pulled his injured hand closer to get a good look at it. Mercifully, there seemed to be only the one splinter. “I wonder if your strength will remain like Thor’s servants, or if it will fade.”

“I assure you, I will find my existence upon this earth a far more pleasant one if I am not constantly breaking bottles of good rum.”

“Steady,” Natasha said, smiling a little at his words. “This will pain you some.” Clint hissed out a breath when she pulled loose the shard, but he did not swear, at least. “There,” she said, holding the splinter up to the flickering lamplight. “Done.”

“Somebody ought to warn Doctor Banner that he might have surgical competition.” Clint’s voice deepened fractionally. Part of Natasha noted just how close they were, pressed shoulder to shoulder, mere centimeters between their faces. Around them, the atmosphere felt hushed, quiet save for the lapping of water against the hull, the familiar creak of the _Angel_ ’s boards. It made it easier to feel the thump of her heartbeat, which had sped up considerably. She met his eyes, even though they were shadowed at this angle, impossible to read.

He slid his uninjured hand into her hair, fingers carding through the strands until his palm rested, warm, callused, familiar, intoxicating, on the back of her neck. She did not lean into it, though she wanted to.

Was this not why she had told him everything of her past?

“Clint,” she said, her voice even with a calmness she did not feel. “What are you doing?”

“Making a better memory.” He eased forward, as though testing the waters, and kissed her. He tasted of alcohol and the sea. There was nothing desperate or furious or frantic about the kiss, which surprised her. Every time she had imagined kissing Clint, there had usually been danger, passion, and some sort of death-defying experience overcome, but now, his lips moved slowly over hers, as though he had all the time in the world and absolutely nothing he wanted to do more. That, she discovered, was fine by her as well. She could think of nothing she wanted more, either.

Clint pulled back to smile at her, though she felt him tense, waiting for her to attack him. Instead, she gave him a look. “I said new memories,” she said, “not better ones.”

“I prefer better ones myself.”

“We should give the matter some discussion.” Natasha swung her leg over the bowsprit so that she was facing him, scooting closer and lifting her face to his to kiss him again. She didn’t know what felt better: that Clint was safe and with her once more, or that _this_ was real and finally happening, and best of all, mutual.

Their bliss, however, was interrupted by a howl and a call of “Yo-ho, pirates!” in a familiar voice.

Clint rested his forehead on Natasha’s shoulder and groaned. “I thought he was abed.”

“Evidently not.”

“Red! Yo-ho, Red, where be ye? Natasha? Nat?” Tony’s voice carried well over the deck of the _Avenging Angel_ , followed by admonitions from Pepper to be quiet, that the crew was no doubt trying to sleep off the exhaustion of battle. After a second, the man himself appeared, carrying something large in his arms. He spotted the pair on the bowsprit, still quiet firmly and unmistakably wrapped around each other, and his eyes went comically wide. “Oh-ho-ho, what am I interrupting?”

“Did you require something, Stark?” Natasha asked.

Pepper hurried up, giving Tony a peevish look. When she glanced over at Clint and Natasha, however, she clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted shock. “Oh! How long has this been taking place?”

Tony set the object in his arms—Natasha couldn’t make out what it was in the dark—on the deck and turned to his lover. “It certainly sheds a good deal of light onto the motivations of our first mate in retrieving the crew of the _Trickster_ , does it not?”

Clint sighed and lifted his head from Natasha’s shoulder. “It seems our privacy has expired. It is time we faced our tribunal.”

Natasha pushed herself to her feet and clambered easily off of the bowsprit. She didn’t bother to put her boots back on. “What is that that you have by your feet, Tony?”

“A gift for my new friend.”

“You are friends now?” Clint asked.

“It is a lengthy tale,” Natasha said. She blinked as the lamplight allowed her to see the object quite clearly. “Where in the name of Gavriil of Belostok did you happen upon a cello?”

“Pepper found it,” Tony said, the pride in his voice clear. “It was aboard the _Trickster_ , in the hold. By all logic, it must stand to reason that this instrument belonged to whomever Loki defeated when he stole the ship, and since the _Trickster_ has been surrendered to us, this is now property of the crew.”

“We think you should have it,” Pepper said. “You played so beautifully the other night, and Clint will surely want his violin back. Think of the duets you could play—”

“That does not seem to be all they will play, Pep,” Tony said.

“—And we could have so much music aboard the ship again. It would be a delight.”

“Really? You played in front of others?” Clint asked her.

“It was Bruce’s fault.” Natasha picked up the cello, which was lighter than she had expected, and stood it up so that she could get a better look. It certainly seemed to be a fine instrument, intricately carved with Cyrillic etchings in the scroll and along the fingerboard, underneath the strings. She plucked at one of the strings, nodding her approval at the clear sound. “Seems to have fared well against a life on a ship,” she said, twisting one of the pegs to tune the string. “A most excellent acquisition. Thank you, Pepper, Tony.”

For his part, Tony looked genuinely pleased for a minute. He did not attempt to hug her, as Pepper did, which Natasha appreciated even more.

“So,” Clint said. “We are to be a proper crew again? Is the _Angel_ fully back in service?”

Tony shrugged his good shoulder. “We’ve a captain again, now that he’s been freed from the ice, and a crew proper.” Though Clint’s eyebrows went high at the mention of the ice—she had yet to inform him of everything that had happened between Tortuga and the Isla de la Luz Azur, Natasha realized—Tony barreled onward. “Thor will want to take Loki and that infernal instrument of death back to Norway, but we must at the very least return the lovely Miss Foster to her father’s estate. And then, who knows? We’ve a seaworthy vessel, our quartermaster is a shade, our surgeon’s other half has a name of his own, and our captain is in love with a mermaid. If that is no call for a grand adventure, I couldn’t fathom what is.”

Natasha and Clint exchanged a long look. “Jane will not want to wait long before following Thor to Norway,” Natasha said slowly. “She will of course want the swiftest ship for the journey.”

“And surely Governor Fury will wish to send emissaries to the most honorable occasion of the nuptials of the Duke of Asgard,” Clint said, agreeing.

“I personally have never attended a Norwegian wedding,” said a new voice, and Bruce joined them. “I find myself curious.”

“Excellent, Doctor!” Tony threw an arm around his shoulders and turned to face the rest of the crew. “We’ll drink the finest mead and celebrate the nuptials of a crew-mate. There will be drinking and merriment and if you don’t mind Hawk-Eyes over here scowling at you in ugly jealousy, you could convince Nat to dance with you.”

“Or me,” Pepper said, and Tony pouted.

Bruce regarded the group gathered around him for a moment, eyes lingering on the cello supported in Natasha’s hands. “Ah, curse your bones, you lot would be lost without me to mop up the blood. Very well, to Thor’s wedding we go.”

“I am having a wedding?” This time it was Thor who strode up, his war hammer swinging from one hand and a baffled expression on his handsome face. Steve followed close behind, a neutral look in place. Thor looked about in general confusion. “I must confess, I do hope the bride is Jane, or this will be a very difficult thing to explain to my father upon my return.”

“I do believe, Lord Asgard, that they are speaking of your eventual wedding to Miss Foster,” Steve said. He raised his eyebrows at the lot of them. “In fact, if I understand what we have just come upon, the crew has taken the liberty of inviting themselves to your wedding.”

“But of course.” Thor’s expression immediately cleared into a smile. “I would have nothing less! Indeed, you shall be guests of honor. I cannot bring dear Jane with me to Norway without her father’s approval, but the moment he has fully given his consent, you will all feast on the finest of smorgasbords with me and my kin.”

“And there is our invitation to come to Norway,” Natasha said to Clint. “I told you it would happen eventually.”

He sighed as he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a coin, placing it in the palm of her hand. “I really should know better by now,” he remarked to Pepper, who gave him a sympathetic smile. “She always wins our wagers.”

“So, Captain,” Tony said, turning to look at Steve. “Does this mean we can go to Thor’s wedding? It is your boat, we follow your orders.”

Steve gave them all a level look. “Are you going to mutiny if I refuse?”

“It is likely,” Natasha said, shrugging.

“Then very well. We will return the good folk to Tortuga and make preparations immediately—as _respectable_ sailors,” Steve said, giving them a look when Tony let out an obnoxious whoop and tossed his top hat. “We will run a reputable, honest trade. No more smuggling, no more pirating, no more privateering. If we are to attend a wedding, we will be upstanding and upright.”

For a long moment, there was dead silence among the crew. Finally, Bruce coughed. “Have you worked that from your system, Cap?” he asked, kindly.

Steve rolled his eyes and smiled. “It was a token protest,” he said. “I know a crew of pirates when I see one. Now get to bed, you scurvy dogs, we’ve work ahead of us if we are to send Thor off in a seaworthy ship.”

There were a few calls of “Aye, Captain!” and one sarcastic salute from Tony, and the group that called themselves the Avengers disbanded, heading below or to the other ship, wherever the most comfortable lodgings to be found were. Natasha waited behind, ostensibly to pull her boots back on. Steve, the last man off the deck, gave her a nod as he left her alone with Clint and her new cello.

Clint picked up the cello, testing its weight. “We’ll have to fashion a case for this. There are supplies on the _Trickster_ that will suit nicely, I think. But I do have to say that that was an absurdly thoughtful notion on Stark’s part. What, did you finally put him in the leg-lock you have been threatening for years? Has he finally learned to fear you?”

“No, we simply struck up a truce.” Natasha licked her fingers and extinguished the candle in its lantern, as the night watchman would have his own lantern and she did not wish for the _Angel_ to burn to cinders while she slept. “It is as I said: we are friends now. Come.”

Clint grabbed her hand. “Where are we going?”

“To make new memories.” Natasha pulled him toward below-decks, smiling as the realization struck him.

He hurried his pace so that he was tugging her along instead. “Better memories, I said. I am certain I said better memories.”

“They had best be better memories, Barton,” Natasha said, and pulled him, laughing, into her cabin.

**The End.**


End file.
